


Hostage

by cthulhu_is_chaotic_good



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Captivity, Conversations, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-05-28 08:29:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19390348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cthulhu_is_chaotic_good/pseuds/cthulhu_is_chaotic_good
Summary: Playing on my desire for a series of conversations between Alex and Yassen: After a mission gone wrong, Alex is being held hostage. While MI6 negotiates his release, Alex is stuck with one of the people he hates most.





	1. The Captive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I wrote this after reading several accounts of people being held captive by ISIS, and listening to several podcasts about terrorist groups around the world. This fictional terrorist group is transparently related to ISIS/Al-Qaeda and set in the Middle East, without a real focus on religion. Please don’t take any messages from this setting other than the author's interest in terrorism has lately been focused on the groups in the Middle East.

Alex woke with a start, in a room he didn’t recognize. The ceiling was a clean white, lit by bright lights in the ceiling and a small rectangular window in the wall too high to see out.

He tried to sit up and felt the familiar feel of cold steel against his wrists. Alex looked down his body. He was laying in a hospital bed, both wrists handcuffed to their own side of the bed. The room was too small to hold another bed; there was barely room for the small bed, a sink in the corner, a chair next to the bed, and a cart of medical equipment.

A building had collapsed on him. Alex remembered throwing himself next to a column and hoping it would protect him. He remembered yelling for help as smoke and ash filled his lungs, making it hard to breathe. He must have passed out from smoke inhalation and been pulled out, unconscious.

  
Remembered the building collapsing, remembered throwing himself next to a pillar and hoping it would protect him. Remembered yelling for help as the smoke and ash filled his lings, making it hard to breathe. He must have passed out from smoke inhalation and been pulled out unconscious. Be he should have woken up before now; unconsciousness didn’t tend to last for too long. Unless whoever had rescued him had then drugged him.  
  
There was something he wasn’t remembering.  
  
Something had gone wrong.

  
Someone had been wrong.  
  
That was it - someone had known something. Someone had known Alex. The mission was compromised because someone recognized Alex - no, there had been a feeling of ominous anticipation in the air before then. The mission was doomed to fail.  
  
Yassen Gregorovich.  
  
Yassen had known Alex, had spotted him at the same moment Alex had recognized the man.  
  
There was a bomb, Alex remembered. It had been planted somewhere, or someone was wearing it...either way it had detonated before Alex had known what was happening.  
  
Alex and the agent posing as his father had been at one end of a giant conference room, and Yassen at another. “Run,” Yassen had mouthed, and Alex had, and then the bomb had exploded, and half of the room was gone.  
  
More details made sense of themselves in Alex’s mind. It was a meeting with a former terrorist, Muhammid Sair, arranged by a cross government alliance. They had set up a meeting to share details that Sair was sharing on the terrorist group The Armed Insurrection.  
  
Alex had just been protection for an agent, cover of a journalist and his son in a safe city, when in reality the agent was supposed to pass along information from one government to another. The bomb hadn’t even been at the meeting; everyone had been in a big conference room for breakfast before the conference. Alex was just going to play games on his phone during the actual proceedings.  
  
It had been a setup, Alex realized now. The defecting terrorist, whether he was really defecting or not, was a cover to gather important people so they could be taken out. The Armed Insurrection was trying to eliminate the people who wanted to eliminate them.

The door to the room opened. A tall man and Yassen walked inside.

“I see you’ve woken up.” The tall man spoke with a strong accent. He had a thick beard, glasses, and was wearing the long white thawb common in the Middle East.  
  
Alex recognized the man from the news clips he’d watched after talking to Mrs. Jones. Abu Al-Najd, the leader and creator of The Armed Insurrection. He’d taken responsibility for the last series of bombings that had occurred this summer across Europe and America.

“You work for MI6.”

Alex said nothing.

“You’re very young. You’ve been working for them a year, too, I hear.”

Yassen put down a black case he’d been carrying and unrolled it. Alex tried to sit up as much the handcuffs would allow him. When he saw what was being unrolled, he stiffened.

“You don’t want to talk,” the man observed. “That is alright. I have seen it before. You will talk.”

“I’ll tell you everything you want, I don’t know that much,” Alex said, suddenly desperate.

“Oh, he saw what you have,” Al-Najd smiled. “Smart boy.”

Yassen reached for Alex’s left hand, the pliers now in plain view on the table.

“Please, I’ll tell you,” Alex insisted, trying to pull his hand back only to be confronted with the cold steel of the handcuffs. “They only tell me a little, I was just cover.”

“For who?” Al-Najd asked pleasantly.

“Another agent, he must have died. His name was Charlie.”

“And what were two MI6 agents, one a child, doing in the Middle East? Vacationing?”

“No,” Alex said, speaking quickly other methods were decided on. “They were going to exchange information, with Sair. Stuff that would take you down. That’s all I know, I swear.”

“Ah, and here’s where we get unpleasant,” the man said. “I don’t believe you. I think you know more. If you don’t, we find out soon.”

Yassen held Alex’s hand steady with his own left hand, and with his right he put the pliers around the

“Please, don’t,” Alex said desperately. And then he was biting on his lip to keep from screaming as his nail was ripped out.

The next hour passed in misery. Alex screamed several times and was openly sobbing most of the interrogation.  
  
“We’ll see you tomorrow,” Al-Najd promised, and he led the way out of the room. Yassen followed. At the doorway, Yassen paused and looked back. Alex didn't have the energy to glare.

Alex tossed and turned for hours that night, pulling at the cuffs holding him in place until his wrists were raw and bloody. He cried, alone in the dark, and managed to stop by telling himself that there might be cameras recording him. He shivered in the chilly room instead, and wished he had a blanket.

In the morning a woman covered completely in black came in and loosed the cuffs enough for Alex to slip out. She had a tray of food with her. She gestured to the restroom and the food and gave Alex time to use the toilet and eat. Then she chained him in again and left.

The bright light from the small window in the top corner of the room suggested that it was noon before Yassen and Al-Najd came back.

Yassen placed a book sized black case and a small metal machine on the table next to the bed. He opened the case and pulled out a syringe, full of a clear liquid. Yassen placed the needle of the syringe against Alex’s wrist and slid it in. Compared to yesterday it didn’t hurt.

“What’s that?” Alex asked.

“I will tell you if I need you to talk,” Yassen replied.

Alex lay his head down against the pillow and waited to see what the silver device did. He didn’t have to wait long. It was placed against his temple, and Yassen pressed a button.

An electric charge ran through Alex’s body, stealing his breath. A pulse of pain filled his head. He gasped.

The questions Yassen asked made no sense to Alex. They were about people he didn’t know, about politicians he had never heard of, and about agencies Alex had never worked with.

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” Alex cried, and each time the response was another pulse of pain. “I’m telling the truth, I’ve never heard of those people!”

Eventually Yassen stopped. Either he was out of questions, or he was convinced Alex had no answers to give.

“He doesn't know anything more,” he told his boss.

Al-Najd considered. “We’ll give him a day to think about his answers. Reconsider them. Maybe without food or water.”

There was a silence as the two men stood to leave.

“My dad would hate you,” Alex said. He didn’t have the energy to glare, so he closed his eyes instead. “You’re torturing his only son.” Not knowing everything that he was saying, or if it was true, just knowing that he needed to hurt Yassen in some way, Alex continued. “He’d kill you for what you’re doing to me. What you did to his brother. You were nothing to him. Just some orphan that he abandoned to an organization he was trying to take down.”

There was no response, and Alex opened his eyes to meet Yassen's gaze.

“I hate you.”

Yassen picked up Alex’s hand, and turned it to look at where the nails should be. Satisfied with whatever he saw there, he let it fall back against the rail of the bed.

“We’re done.” He told Al-Najd. They both turned to leave.

Alex slept in fits that night. He was hungry and hurt. The woman attending Alex had released him to use the restroom but, as the terrorist had promised, she hadn’t brought any food.  
  
Slowly the light filled with room, and then the infirmary was a bright cage. The same woman came without food to give Alex a brief restroom break, and he was almost desperate enough to knock the woman out to escape. But she hadn’t done anything. More importantly, he had no idea what was waiting outside.

The day’s light was beginning to fade when the door opened. Alex closed his eyes. There was the sound of more than one person. They were back.

“Haven’t you had enough of this hospital bed? Aren’t you hungry for good food?” Al-Najd taunted. “I have a soldier in the army for righteousness that would spend a great night with you. He would treat you very well.”

Alex stared at the ceiling, a sick feeling in his stomach.

“He’s 15,” Yassen said.

Al-Najd laughed. “No? It’s no matter. But tell me, what more does he know? I want to know if he’s holding anything back.”

“If he knew more, he would tell me.”

Al-Najd leaned over Alex and looked down at him. Alex looked away.

“Very well. No more answers from him, but I have a Western hostage. A spy. A British child. A present from the imperialists who conquered this land for decades. I want to know how he is of the most use to me. What does his government know?”

“No one knows where he is. We took him from the wreckage as we left the scene. They may not even know he’s alive.”

Al-Najd nodded, frowning. “Fine. Then this is what we do. We make a video of him and tell his government that if any of their spies try to infiltrate my network, or they try to attack my warriors, we will remove a part of his body.” The man grabbed Alex’s hand. “And then another. And then another. We do this until they stop, or release one of my men back to me. And we send this hand as a gift.”

“Anytime you hurt him he is less valuable,” Yassen said. “Send the video, alone. There is also less risk of an infection.”

Al-Najd nodded and brought out a key. He unlocked Alex’s cuffs.

Alex was blindfolded and ushered through two hallways to another room, where he was forced to his knees, still blindfolded. Conversations in Arabic happened around him. Eventually the conversations ended and one voice spoke alone. Probably narrating to a camera. Eventually the voice stopped, and conversation resumed.

A hand gripped Alex’s hair. “Now what to do with you?” Al-Najd’s voice asked.

“I’ll take him with me,” Yassen said. “He’ll be less trouble if someone is watching him. Someone that knows the language he speaks.”

“I have two other captives here now. He could be with them.”

“He has worked successfully for MI6 for over a year. He manages to escape trouble every time. I will keep an eye on him.”

Alex felt someone take him by the arm and force him up. He stood and was pulled along. The Arabic conversation was left behind.

After minutes of traveling, hoping that whoever was leading him didn’t force him into a wall, Alex was pushed down onto a seat. Blindly, he felt around and could feel cushion. A couch, then.

Wherever he was, it was quiet. Whoever was with him was barely making sound. Yassen then.

Alex leaned against the couch. Yassen had said he was going to watch Alex. What did that entail? Alex sitting blindfolded all day? His hands were free, he could just take this off. 

A large enough part of Alex was too scared of Yassen to test the man. Another part hated him enough to do something just to irritate him.

A door opened. Moments later soft clothes hit Alex in the chest. Alex flinched. Light fingers touched his head and the blindfold was removed.

Alex blinked and looked around the room, readjusting to light.

He was in a modern apartment. He was on one of two grey couches pushed together in an L shape around a coffee table and a large screen TV. The other half of the room had an open kitchen and a small table with three chairs between the living space and the kitchen. There was a closed door deadbolted near the beginning of the kitchen space, and an open door across the room from that.

Alex clutched at the items that had just been thrown at him. A clean black shirt and grey sweats. And a towel. He looked at Yassen. Alex had grown in the past few months, and they were roughly the same size now. These clothes, if they were Yassen’s, would probably be just a bit loose on Alex.

“There’s a restroom through the bedroom. Take a shower and change.” Yassen waited while Alex grabbed the clothes and towel and went through the open door.

The bedroom was simple. White bedsheets on a black bedframe, a king bed, and a small table with an alarm on it. The closet was closed. There was no sign that anyone lived here.

Alex locked the restroom door and started the shower. All the products on the shelf were in Arabic, and Alex made a guess about which was shampoo and which was soap. As sensitive as the tips of Alex’s fingers were, where he had once had nails on his left hand, the shower still felt good.

The clothes fit better than Alex had expected. Alex looked at the mirror and rubbed the towel in a circle to defog it. He had ‘raccoon eyes’, as Jack had called them. He was exhausted, and hungry. He didn’t want to see Yassen.

Alex took his old clothes and threw them into the corner of the room. He unlocked the door and went back to the general area of the apartment.

The apartment smelled like chicken. Yassen was standing over the oven, cooking. The assassin looked over and saw Alex. “Sit,” Yassen instructed, and Alex returned to his position on the couch. 

The television was on, but not to sports. Alex looked at it, and saw that it was a room from a bird’s eye perspective. The screen flickered and another room filled the screen. Alex watched as 23 different rooms flickered through on a loop. The infirmary was one of them. So he was right. He had been being watched, even if he hadn’t seen the camera.

Some of the room had people in them. Three had women, seven had men. The rest were empty. Alex didn’t see any indication of other captives, although some of the rooms that he saw were small sleeping quarters with not a lot of room for other activities.

“Dinner’s ready.”

Alex turned around and saw that Yassen had put two plates on the table. Alex went to take a seat. Ignoring the custom that both people should be seated before eating, Alex began to eat. As terrible as Yassen was, he wasn’t a bad cook. The chicken and peppers were delicious, and Alex hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning.

Yassen took a seat and began to eat as well. Alex turned so he didn’t have to look at the man, although he could feel Yassen’s eyes on him.

“I’m done,” Alex announced. He stood and went to wash his plate.

Then he turned around and crossed his arms. “When do I get to go home?”

Yassen considered. “That would depend on the cooperation between your masters and mine.”

“What does that mean?” Alex challenged.

“Perhaps a day. Perhaps a month. If you are particularly unlucky, longer.”

Alex frowned. He wasn’t going to stay here a month.

“So what, you’re religious now? Down with the West, and all that?”

Yassen shook his head. “I am employed to handle logistics. My skills negate my lack of interest in their long-term goals.”

“In other words, you’ll work for anybody evil. Any group that bombs innocents and terrorizes school children.”

“In this particular instance,” Yassen said, “You came here. I wouldn’t call an MI6 agent an innocent schoolboy anymore, however much he may want to be.”

Alex grimaced. He had been less than enthused to go on this mission. Alex would even use the word ‘coerced’. But the remnants of SCORPIA had sent threats, and MI6 would only offer full protection if they could use Alex to their benefit. Yassen didn’t know that, but Alex wasn’t sure he needed to know that either.

“It’s time for you to go to bed,” the assassin said. “You have the bedroom.”

“My dad would hate you.” Alex said.

Yassen leveled his gaze at Alex. “John Rider trained me, and I am who John made me become. He is not here to judge.”

Alex turned and went into the bedroom. He closed the door behind him with force. There was a scraping sound outside the room, and Alex tried to open the door. The door went out a half inch and hit something. A chair was shoved against the door handle, and the door opened outwards. If Alex tried to leave the room, he would be heard. 

That was a problem for another day. Exhausted, Alex crawled into bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This entire story has been plotted, in extensive detail, down to the epilogue. Yes, my imagination mostly centers around ways for these two fictional people to be stuck together long enough to have a conversation.


	2. Protection

  
When Alex woke and tried the door, the chair had already been removed. Alex wandered out into the common area. Yassen was speaking Arabic into a phone on the couch, and the television now showed all the rooms on one screen. Yassen didn’t turn around, but Alex harbored no illusions that the man didn’t know Alex was awake and about.

There was a bowl of oatmeal on the table, and next to it an unopened pack of underwear and a toothbrush. Practical. Alex grimaced. There was every indication that it would take more than a couple of days to get him out of here. Alex was going to need to find another way.

Alex ate the oatmeal and washed the bowl, then wandered back into the bedroom. Alex glanced around the room and realized for the first time it didn’t have windows. He walked into the rest of the apartment and looked around to see the same lack of windows there. That must mean they were inside a much larger building, like one of the compounds Alex had seen in his drive into the city. Alex sat on the bed. He meant to think of a plan of escape, but before he knew it he was waking up and the clock showed it was near two in the afternoon.

This time when he walked outside there was a sandwich on the table with a glass of water. Alex ate. He stared at Yassen, who was facing the television and a laptop on the coffee table, and he stared at the television screen himself. Through one of those rooms there had to be a door to the outside world. Now the question was, how to get there.

Wondering if Yassen would tell him to go away, Alex walked forward. Yassen was sitting on one of the couches and Alex sat on the other. There was a large kitchen on the screen, and one of the rooms was outside, a courtyard. Those seemed the two likeliest points of escape. If Yassen put Alex near the courtyard and he ran, Alex would have – he counted – four possible paths of escape. And people needed to eat, so maybe the kitchen would be a good place to squeeze out and run. Time passed as Alex obviously studied the screen in front of him, trying to understand which rooms connected to each other, and which rooms had people in them. Yassen’s own apartment and wherever Al-Najd lived were nowhere to be found on the screen. When Alex looked at the ceiling of the room, he didn’t spot any obvious cameras either. Evidently, the assassin and his boss valued their privacy. 

There was a knock at the door, and Yassen moved to answer it. Alex tried to get an inconspicuous look at what was on the laptop, but all he saw was Arabic script on an otherwise blank screen.

He turned to the door and saw Yassen carrying a brown paper bag into the kitchen and place it in the refrigerator.

“What’s that?”

“Food for dinner.”

“There’s a kitchen on your monitor. And it looks like another room has people eating in it.”

Yassen glanced at the television. “I would prefer to make my own food.”

“Afraid someone will poison you?” Alex asked spitefully.

“No.”

Alex sat for a long-time watching people on the screen. Certain rooms seemed to be reserved for women, and others for men. Two empty rooms looked like military barracks, with several bunks squeezed into tiny spaces. Alex watched the kitchen for a while, realizing that his chance of escape from the kitchen was miniscule if Yassen preferred to eat in his apartment. On screen, a man dressed in black was chopping onions with precision.

“I know how to cook,” Alex said.

Yassen ignored this information.

“I can cook dinner.” Alex glanced back at the kitchen. “I don’t know what you have but I can see what I can do with the ingredients. And you wouldn’t have to split your time between work and cooking.”

“You’re free to use the kitchen.”

“Great.”

Chicken, onions, peppers, and a flat bread. Alex could work with these ingredients. And there was more in the fridge. Presumably if he needed something else, he wouldn’t be penalized – his captor had told him he was free to use the kitchen.

Spices were above the sink, a trash can below it. Pots and pans to the left of the sink. A cutting board was hanging above the sink.

Sharp knives were in the drawer next to the silverware. 

He ruffled among the knives for a minute before finding one that suited his purposes: sharp, small enough to fit in his pocket, and in a small sheath. Perfect.

Alex was in the halfway-crying state of cutting onions when Yassen turned around.

“Alex,” Yassen said. He waited until Alex wiped his eyes and met his gaze before continuing. “I know what I have in that kitchen. I expect nothing will go missing, or there will be consequences.”

“Fuck you,” Alex swore.

Yassen regarded Alex. “You’re done.’”

“What?” Alex snapped.

“You’re done. Sit down.” The assassin gestured at the couch beside him.

Alex glared at the assassin, who had by now turned around. He banged the knife on the cutting board before following the instructions.

Hours later Alex stared down at what was left of his food with resentment. He could have done this. Even if Yassen had figured out why Alex was asking to cook, the man could have at least let Alex do something besides sit there.

Alex pushed the rest of his food away from him. He couldn’t handle more of this charade of normalcy. Alex was a hostage; Yassen was his captor. He might be forced to sit down and eat together, but he didn’t have to play nice. “My dad probably abandoned you for a reason.”

“Perhaps because he was working with MI6 and I was not?”

“Finally figure it out, did you?” Alex countered.

“I knew John was working with MI6 years ago,” Yassen replied.

There was a storm of emotions inside of Alex. Surprise. Anger. Betrayal. Of all the people that had put Alex in danger over the past year, it had seemed that Yassen of all people had tried to help Alex by sending him to SCORPIA. Yassen had declared his love for John Rider while blood was seeping out of him. “So you sent me to SCORPIA to die?” Alex asked harshly. “They tried to kill me.”

“I didn’t intend that to happen. I sent you to SCORPIA to learn the skills that you needed to survive.” Yassen got up and put his plate in the sink.

“They’re killers.”

Yassen shrugged and began to stack the dishes he had used to cook with.

Alex pushed his plate away and went to the room. He couldn’t be around that sociopath any longer.

\---

Alex woke to Yassen taking clothes from the closet and heading into the restroom. The moment the door closed, Alex considered running. Or going into the kitchen to grab the knife. He tried to stand up and realized one of his wrists had been cuffed to the bedframe while he slept. Glowering, Alex sat curled up against the bedframe and looked at the door. Yassen emerged a minute later to throw his old clothes into the laundry hamper at the bottom of the closet. Ignoring Alex, he returned to the restroom, this time leaving the door open. Alex heard an electric razor buzz.

Yassen finished in the restroom and left the bedroom, leaving Alex stuck to the bed. Alex examined the handcuff. He could get out of it. If he was willing to break a thumb.

Some time later Yassen entered the room and let Alex free. “There’s food to make breakfast in the kitchen.”

“Fine.”

Alex made himself toast and returned to the bedroom. He lay on the bed and counted the cracks in the ceiling. He wondered if Yassen had been impacted by Alex’s words about his father.

The door opening outside indicated that someone was there. An Arabic conversation began, and Alex reluctantly got up to see what was happening.

The terrorist leader was there. His back was turned, and he was pointing at a piece of paper and conversing with Yassen. Alex moved to the couch and eyed the television. The screen showed only one room now; a room with many men talking around a map.

Al-Najd caught sight of Alex and asked, in English, “How’s the spy?”

Alex spoke before Yassen had the chance. “Put me somewhere else,” Alex said. “I’ll be a better hostage if I’m not with the man who killed my uncle. If you leave me here, I’ll cause problems.”

Al-Najd looked surprised. “Is this a request? Or a threat?”

“Both,” Alex said.

  
“My offer remains the same. You would enjoy the hospitality of my friend, and perhaps if you are well behaved you have a warm bed to sleep in.” Al-Najd looked to Yassen. “Should I send him there?”

Alex flinched. He had spoken before he could stop himself, hearing Al-Najd talking about him as if he were not in the room, but he had meant to be placed with the other two supposed hostages in the compound, if that was where the other two were kept. The threat of sexual violence was not one he knew how to defend against.

“He’ll stay with me,” Yassen replied.

Conversation resumed in Arabic for only a few minutes. After Al-Najd left, Yassen walked to the couch.

“What?” Alex asked shortly.

Yassen looked at Alex. "Talk for me again, and there will be consequences," he promised.   
  
Alex looked away. He was angry enough to argue, but he wasn't an idiot. The torture of the past few days was barely over. 

Despite his fear, Alex eventually folded his arms and closed his eyes.

When he woke he was covered in a blanket. Alex sat up and shoved it onto the ground, away from himself. “I don’t want anything from you.”

Yassen didn’t bother to look up from his laptop as he responded. “If you want to eat or wear clothing, you’ll take what I give you.”

Yassen didn’t eat lunch, and Alex didn’t ask for any. Hours ticked by slowly, and Alex began to realize that the boredom of being a captive was worse, in many ways, than the fear of not having control of the situation. His solace was that he was angry enough to barely feel the boredom. Angry at Yassen, for torturing him, and sending him to a terrorist organization that had almost led Alex to destructive choices. Angry at Al-Najd, for paying Yassen to do terrible things to Alex. Angry at MI6 for putting him in this situation, again.

Yassen reheated leftovers from yesterday and put some on a plate for Alex before returning to work. Alex ate silently, took a shower, and tried to sleep.

\---

Jack was burning. She was burning, and it was his fault.

“Jack,” Alex moaned. “Stop, stop it, please.”

“Calm,” someone said, and brushed hair out of Alex’s face. Alex reached out reflexively and grabbed the arm, squeezing hard with panic as a fresh wave of terror gripped him. _Jack was burning._

“No, don’t!”

“Breathe,” the voice said, and Alex moaned again and burrowed his head into the pillow, shaking, breathe raggedy. _Jack._

She was dead. Alex released the arm he’d been squeezing and pushed himself up.

Yassen looked at him, calmly.

Alex looked away. “Leave me alone.”

It was only after Yassen left and Alex heard the sound of the chair being pushed against the door that Alex allowed himself to cry.

\---

Al-Najd was in conversation with two other men, while Alex sat in the corner. Yassen had led him there, blindfolded, and left Alex while the man attended to other business. At least he’d taken the blindfold off in Al-Najd’s office.

Alex closed his eyes and willed the time to pass faster. He wanted to go home. In the past couple of days, no one had mentioned him leaving, and Alex had began to think with sickening regularity of the American couple kidnapped by The Armed Insurrection a year ago. He had seen it on the news. They still hadn’t been released, if they were alive.

“Why are you worth protecting?”

It took a moment for Alex to register that the terrorist was talking to him. The other two men in the room watched quietly. Possibly they didn’t speak English.

“What?”

Al-Najd tapped a finger against his glasses. “I ask myself why it is my head of intelligence is protecting a child spy from another country. You want to share?”

Alex said nothing. If Yassen was protecting Alex, he had a poor way of showing it. Alex wasn’t comparing Yassen’s two infrequent acts of kindness with the days of torture, but if he was, the torture won.

“A building falls on you, and my men stay in a place where the military is coming to dig you out. I suggest our usual interrogation methods, and my interrogator insists on less permanent means. You tell me why this is.”

Al-Najd had wanted to do worse to Alex than had actually happened. Alex filed that information away.

“I don’t know.”

“He knew your father?”

Alex nodded.

“And he feels he owes your father something?”

Alex was saved from answering by the reappearance of Yassen.

“Ah,” Al-Najd said. “We were just talking about you.”

Yassen arched an eyebrow but said nothing. Alex looked away.

“I still think we should take a hand or an ear to send to his government. They’ll respond faster that way.”

“I doubt it,” Yassen responded. Al-Najd smiled and looked at Alex. Alex looked away. He knew the message the man was sending; the point he was trying to prove. Yassen was protecting Alex. If the terrorist wanted to believe that, let him.

Alex let himself be blindfolded again and walked back to the apartment. Once there Yassen removed the blindfold and went immediately to his usual seat in front of the television screen. Alex sat down against the wall. He needed time to think. Was Yassen protecting him? Possibly. All Alex was missing was some fingernails. Why? John Rider had abandoned him. But Yassen’s parents had died at a young age and he’d looked up to John. Maybe a mentor that abandoned you was better than no mentor at all.

Alex glanced at Yassen. He, as per usual, was ignoring Alex’s existence. Alex got up and went to the kitchen. He looked in the fridge to find a plastic bag full of new food and the condiments and bread and jam that had been in there earlier. Alex had never been extremely interested in cooking, but he’d learned some stuff on his own to give Jack relief from cooking every now and again. Now that he lived alone, he was responsible for his own meals. No matter how many times Tom invited him for dinner, or how many times a week Alex ate fast food, occasionally there were meals he just had to figure out on his own. He was bored enough to cook dinner tonight, if he wasn’t told to sit down over something stupid again.

Two hours later, the over timer beeped. Alex turned the heat off and took the chicken out of the oven. 

After the meat cooled, Alex cut into a piece to check that it was fully cooked. It was. And it smelled good. Despite his circumstances, Alex smiled. He was getting better at cooking.

Alex stacked half the vegetables on top of the meat he’d made onto a plate.

He considered the other half of the food.

Alex wasn’t petty enough to throw the rest of the food away. Yassen could get more. And he’d left food for Alex the past few days. But Alex had no intention of eating with the assassin. In the past few hours Yassen had turned around once or twice to check on him. Otherwise the man had ignored Alex’s movements around the kitchen. If he wanted food, it would be here for him; Alex wasn’t going to call ‘dinner’ and pretend that this was anything other than a hostile relationship. The man had tortured him for days. 

His internal argument settled, Alex sat down to eat. Yassen, apparently ignoring Alex’s not at all hidden desire to keep their spaces separate, stood and walked to the kitchen.

Alex caught Yassen’s eye and smiled a fake smile. “I can promise my food is better than whatever they’ll serve you in prison, whenever MI6 catches you.”

“Alex, enough,” Yassen said. He picked up a plate and began to serve himself.

“And unfortunately, the meat’s boneless, so you won’t choke and die.”

Yassen paused. “Time for bed. Now.”  
  
“I haven’t eaten yet,” Alex said. It was barely 8. There was no way Yassen thought that Alex was tired now.

“And you’re not going to,” Yassen agreed. “Go to bed.”

“I made it,” Alex argued. “You can have some of it if you want, but I cooked it, and I’m going to eat it.”

“You decided to cook. You also decided to act like a spoiled child. So I’m sending you to bed.”

Alex stared in defiance. “I cooked for both of us. I even cleaned all the stuff up.”

“Now,” Yassen said, and there was a dark undertone to his voice that made Alex turn, furious, and leave the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter has some of my favorite dialogue (plus I'm psyched for the later chapters of this fic in general.)


	3. Slavery

There was no breakfast waiting on the table when Alex woke up. And the bread in the refrigerator was out. Alex scowled. He’d eaten oatmeal the other day because he was famished, but he wasn’t a fan. Reluctantly he went to make oatmeal. He couldn’t find sugar in the cabinets either.

“Eat quickly,” Yassen said from the sofa. “I have a meeting soon.”

Alex pushed the food away without enthusiasm. He went back into the room, opening the drawer in the closet Yassen had told him was to hold his clothes. He grabbed clean clothes and changed in the bathroom, washed his face, and brushed his teeth. Great. Now he was ready for the day.

Yassen covered Alex’s head in a hood and led him into the hallway. Alex stumbled, suddenly walking down a set of steps without notice. “Fuck you,” he tried to say. From the way he was immediately slammed against the wall, Yassen heard.

The office Alex found himself in, when the hood was pulled off, was not a room he’d seen from the security footage on the television. There was a cluster of large armchairs around a small table close to the near wall, and against the far wall was a desk with four chairs pulled in around it. The desk was against the wall, meaning whoever was sitting next to the desk was facing away from the armchairs at the back of the room. Alex immediately went to sit in one of the armchairs. If whatever business Yassen was here for was happening at the desk, Alex wanted to be out of sight, but in a place where he could potentially spy from behind.

Another man entered the room, followed by an elderly man. The first man had a large mustache and beard. Mustache, then. Mustache greeted Yassen and said something short to Alex. He then took a seat at the desk. Yassen took a second seat.

The aged man stood against the wall. He was in clear discomfort. Alex eyed him. One of the man’s legs was bent slightly at the knee, while the other was not. As Alex watched him, the older man stumbled, and reached for the wall behind him.

Mustache turned and snapped at the man. Alex blinked. “He needs to sit down.”

“He is being told to stand,” Yassen said.

“Who is he?” Alex asked.

“A servant.”

“A servant who can’t sit down? More like a slave,” Alex said darkly.

“Yes,” Yassen agreed.

“Then I’m not sitting either,” Alex said, and stood against the wall. He expected Yassen would just tell him to sit down. To his surprise, the man just turned in his chair to face the desk.

Mustache, after looking blankly between Yassen and Alex, gestured between Alex and the nice chair.

Alex looked at Yassen. “Tell him I’ll sit there when the other man gets to.”

“I’m not your translator.”

Yassen and Mustache began their meeting. Alex slowly slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, between the older man and the fancy chairs. Alex looked up at the older man. He was wearing black clothes. Alex had seen several people in black clothes on the security cameras. Alex started in realization. All of the men he had seen in black on the television had been doing menial tasks. Cutting, cleaning, making beds. Was there a whole system of slavery in this place?

That would explain a lot. Men who signed up to be terrorists probably were more likely to remain if they found themselves being treated like royalty by people who were being forced to serve them. Alex scowled. If he had needed a reminder that he was surrounded by criminals, this was it.

Alex considered the older man. He was at least 60. Probably more. What had happened to him that he ended up here?

“I need a paper and pen,” Alex said. To his shock, Yassen reached for a pen and paper and held them back, without looking behind him. Alex took them and went to sit where the servant was staring down. Alex looked up to see if the man was watching him. He was. Alex drew a series of 3 by 3 grids. In the first one he alternated using his hands to draw O’s and X’s in sequence, stopping once he put three O’s in a row. Alex drew a line connecting them. He looked up to see the servant staring at the paper. Alex repeated the process, but slower. This time the X’s won. Alex drew an O in the upper right corner of the third grid then turned to the servant. He offered the paper to him.

The older man shook his head slowly. Alex nodded in understanding and put the paper down. The man glanced up. Both his boss and Yassen were turned to face the opposite wall. The man reached for the paper.

Yassen glanced back the third time Alex and the older man exchanged the paper. Alex kept his face neutral. Yassen turned back to the table and Servant froze. Alex marked his fourth O and connected the row of O’s to show that he had won. When a minute had passed and neither man turned around, Alex offered the paper to the older man again. With trembling fingers, the man took it.

Mustache stood up suddenly. Servant dropped the paper and pen, and Alex reached to grab them before the man turned around. Mustache turned and snapped something at Servant, then left the room. The older man stayed. Yassen turned around and held out his hand. Alex thought about refusing and thought better of it. He held out the paper. Yassen took it, looked at both sides, and handed it back.

Mustache came back, accompanied by another man in all black. The second man in black was holding a tray with a tea pot, a stack of cups, and biscuits on it. The man put it down on the table, bowed, and left.

Mustache poured himself some tea. Yassen refused. Mustache snapped, and Servant came forward, took the tray, and brought it back to the small table in between the armchairs.

Yassen and Mustache resumed their conversation. Alex got up and poured himself some tea. The biscuits looked delicious, and Alex grabbed 4. Alex sat back down next to Servant. He put the cup of tea down on the floor next to him. Alex offered Servant a biscuit, and was turned down.

Mustache took a piece of paper and left the room again minutes later. Alex looked up at the older man, and pointed at himself. “Alex,” he said.

Servant nodded. “Mohammad,” he said. He said something else in either a different dialect of Arabic, or another language, but it sounded different to Alex than what Yassen and Mustache had just been speaking in.

Yassen looked over. “You remind him of his grandson.”

Alex was spared from trying to get Yassen to translate something back by the reappearance of Mustache. Mohammad reached for the paper and pen as soon as his boss turned around and wrote something on it.

Mohammad handed the paper and pen back to Alex and pointed to Yassen. Alex frowned. He wasn’t giving the paper to Yassen. He might ask what the words meant though.

Alex waited until he’d been led back to the apartment to ask what the words on the paper said.

“It’s a prayer for good health and long life,” Yassen said. “One that I’m sure you will need.”

“Hah.” Alex frowned. “Who is he?”

  
“A captured villager. He will work until he dies, most likely.”  
  
Alex could feel his anger rising. He restrained himself from saying anything. Yassen had already demonstrated that he was not a fan of Alex’s habit of swearing when surrounded by awful people.

Eventually Alex said, “Your boss is an evil man. Again.”  
  
“I have worked for worse people,” Yassen replied. “Once I was in the same position as that man, expecting to work without pay until I died. This is better.”  
  
Alex stared. “You were a servant?”  
  
“The word slave would again be more accurate.”  
  
“You’re lying,” Alex accused. “Why would someone who was enslaved ever work for someone who enslaves others?”

“Because that person has the freedom to do so.”

\---

Mohammad stood in the same place he had yesterday when he entered the room. Alex looked up at him tiredly. Alex was again sitting on the floor in protest of Mohammad being forced to stand. Alex should probably be standing too, but in honesty he was just so tired. He had been unable to sleep well last night, thinking of his own home and what he should have been doing with summer vacation instead of this.

Yassen and Mustache – Alex thought he’d heard that his name was Issam – and a third man were considering the contents of a file that that the third men had brought in. Alex wondered what sort of business terrorists had that kept them occupied all day. Sad as it was to say, Alex had generally found it very easy to get into difficult to get to places. If it took them this long to plant bombs, this had to just be an inefficient organization. The benefits of terrorism, if there were such a thing, had to include avoiding taxes. So the hours that Alex had seen Ian spend doing taxes were out. Perhaps the men were marking out their next vacation spot. Somewhere that wasn’t 120 degrees outside.

The third man stood to leave, and Mustache stood with him to accompany him out to the door. Mustache and the third man stepped outside the room, still conversing.

Mohammad tapped Alex on the shoulder. Alex looked up. Mohammad drew a small square paper out of his front pant pocket.

Alex glanced over and saw Yassen watching. He hadn’t done anything yesterday when Alex was playing tic-tac-toe. Alex reached for the square. It was a photograph of a boy, slightly younger than Alex. The boy had dark skin and a contrasting white smile. His grandson?

“Alex,” Yassen warned.

Alex handed the photograph back to Mohammad just as Mustache returned to the room. As his boss took a seat, Mohammad smiled at Alex. Alex smiled back.

\---

The gym hadn’t surprised Alex. It was one of the rooms on the security cameras. Alex once again was left to entertain himself as Yassen went about his day.

Alex skirted around the exercise equipment in the middle of the room and went to the mats at the back corner. He looked at them. It wasn’t anywhere near the same amount of space as his dojo. It would still work. Alex breathed, and began to work on his form for his next dan test.

Alex was covered in sweat when Yassen called for him to stop. The assassin covered Alex’s head in the hood for the walk back to the apartment. Yassen handcuffed Alex to the bed long enough to take a shower. Yassen released him after he was done showering, and Alex went to change into cleaner clothes. When he emerged he found the door closed with the chair shoved in front of it. He was banished to the bedroom, it appeared.

Alex lay on the bed and tried to nap for a bit. After trying unsuccessfully to get sleep for about half an hour, he went to the door and pressed his ear against it. He couldn’t hear anything outside. Maybe Yassen was taking a nap. Or maybe the man was just particularly quiet.   
He could be just annoyed enough by Alex’s presence to demand his own space right now.

Alex began to practice the karate form he hadn’t finished in the gym.

There was a light tap at the door.

“Come in,” Alex said, still practicing.

Yassen entered. He paused in the open door and watched for a minute.  
  
“Do you want something?” Alex asked.  
  
“How long have you been studying?” Yassen asked.  
  
“Since I was 5.” There had been a break between Alex’s classes, when he and Ian and Jack had lived abroad in France. And there had been some months long gaps when Alex had gone on extended trips with Ian and Jack during the summer. That was more information than Alex was willing to give.   
  
Yassen nodded. “There’s food on the table.”  
  
‘Food’ was some sort of couscous. Next to the plate was a stack of books in English. _Carrie_ by Stephen King, a book of math theorems, two books of poetry by a Japanese author, and a couple of books on modern politics.  
  
“You’re a fan of Stephen King?”  
  
“Those are for you. English books left from a previous captive and an Australian member of this group.”  
  
Alex considered the books warily. “Why?”  
  
Yassen went back to his laptop. “You’re free to read them, or not. I expect they’re better than being bored all day.”  
  
Alex eyed the political books. He picked up one and flipped it to the back. A conservative Australian politician smiled out, and underneath were some bland words about devotion to his country.  
  
“Wrong country’s politics.”  
  
Yassen looked up. “It’s about religion in government. You may learn more than you expect.”  
  
“I think I’d rather be tortured,” Alex muttered, catching a glimpse of what bordered on hateful rhetoric at the bottom of the cover.  
  
“Don’t say things you don’t mean,” Yassen countered.

\---

Alex paced until Yassen told him to sit down. He looked at the ceiling and counted to 1000. He read the first few chapters of Carrie. At one point he went into the bedroom and practiced his karate forms again. The boredom of captivity was driving him insane.

There was no new food in the refrigerator. Eventually Alex sat down and committed to getting farther in Carrie. He lasted a chapter before throwing the book down. Alex buried his head in his hands. “Fuck, I’d kill for a coke.”

Yassen didn’t respond.  
  
Alex peeked out of his hands. “You need better prisoner accommodations.”  
  
“Yes,” Yassen agreed. His tone indicated that he wasn’t fully paying attention. “Having your own room and food that is restocked daily is a hardship.”  
  
Alex ignored him. “A hamburger would be great too, if you’re taking requests. Or fish and chips. Also a phone call. Don’t actual prisoners get phone calls?”  
  
“Some.”  
  
“Also coffee. Or Breakfast tea.”  
  
Yassen used the remote to flick between different rooms on the television.  
  
“What are you watching for?” Alex asked. “Thieves? Intruders?”  
  
Yassen ignored that question in turn. “If you want tea, it’s in the cabinet. Go make some.”  
  
“What are the odds of me getting a coke?” Alex asked.  
  
“About the odds of me being left to my work.”  
  
Alex blinked. Was that sarcasm? “I’ll shut up if you get me a coke.”  
  
“Oh?” Yassen yawned.  
  
“Coke has caffeine. You could use it too.” Alex suggested.  
  
Yassen didn’t respond.  
  
“How much silence do you want?” Alex tried. “I’ll shut up for five hours if you get me a coke.”  
  
Yassen reached for his cell phone and called someone. He began to talk into the phone almost immediately.   
  
Alex rolled up off the couch. The odds of Yassen’s call being about his coke were nonexistent. Meanwhile Alex was fighting other demons.  
  
Mohammad. Alex had to help him. Had to help all the people trapped here. Much as Alex really did crave a cold soda right now, he wasn’t deceived that his needs were the greatest in the compound. Yassen had been surprisingly not awful to Alex for the past few days, for the most part. He treated Alex less with hate than with a sort of disinterest. If Al-Najd was to be believed, there may even be some feelings of...protectiveness? That wasn’t right. Alex shuddered as he thought of his ignored pleading to stop when Yassen was pulling his fingernails out. His pitiful crying when he was being shocked again and again. (Though that didn’t explain Yassen pulling a blanket around Alex when he fell asleep on the couch or sitting with him when Alex woke screaming from nightmares of Jack dying).  
  
But Yassen wasn’t cruel. Not overly so, anyway. Everything he did was because other men ordered him to do them. Sending Alex to bed without dinner, enraging as it had been, was not an act of blatant cruelty. Alex wondered about the man who Mohammad answered to. He wondered about the man who reportedly liked to sleep with children. Was there someone here now who was trapped with that man? Alex needed to do something.  
  
But he was stuck. Yassen would do...something... if Alex tried to escape. Better not to ask what. Still, there had to be something Alex could do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to slow down in updating for a while. I would love to hear thoughts in the meantime.


	4. Quiet

“Slavery is wrong. Everyone knows that. You have skills that are valuable. Couldn’t you find another job that used your skills without enslaving people?”

  
“My previous employers are not still an option.” Yassen glanced at Alex with irony.  
  
“SCORPIA dealt with slavery, and human trafficking, and chemical attacks, and worse. The Armed Insurrection bombs civilians. They’re both awful. You’re sick that you think you can trap people to work for you and just keep them as slaves. All you care about is money and you destroy lives for it. SCORPIA deserved to fall.”

“Criminal enterprises are a part of civilization,” Yassen replied. “SCORPIA might not exist anymore, but others will take it’s place. Your agency’s work is temporary. I, meanwhile, will take the jobs that are available. Regardless of your view on their morality.”  
  
Typing resumed. Alex could feel himself becoming more frustrated. Why did Yassen feel he deserved an opinion on the merits of immoral industries? The man might have the option of working for terrorists, but he didn’t have to take it!

“I’m glad I left SCORPIA.”  
  
“Interesting,” Yassen said. His tone implied that Alex’s words were not.  
  
Alex let loose a string of curses, to no response.  
  
“Deal’s still on,” Alex said angrily. “I’ll shut up for a coke.”  
  
Yassen gave him a look. “You’ll be quiet if I tell you to.”  
  
“Then tell me to.” Alex challenged.  
  
Yassen examined him. “Alex, be quiet,” he said mildly.  
  
Alex glared. Quietly. He clenched a fist, and his jaw, but said nothing. He had spent three days in misery because of Yassen. He didn’t need to spend more. Wordlessly Alex turned and stomped to his room.  
  
Hours later, classical music played. Alex ate without speaking and then rose to wash his dishes and disappear.  
  
“I would have told you to be quiet earlier if I knew it would be so effective,” Yassen said. Alex had the feeling it was mostly in jest. He studied the dish he was washing with renewed interest. Yassen might be a good mood, but Alex wasn’t.  
  
The next morning Alex woke up disgruntled and just as tired as he had been the night before. His muscles ached from the hours practicing his karate forms, particularly after days of doing nothing more strenuous than laying down or sitting.  
  
Yassen’s good mood, Alex saw when he entered the main room, continued. As was the classical music. An arrangement of vegetables sat across the kitchen, meat was thawing on the counter, and a plate of eggs was waiting for him at the table. Alex grabbed the plate and made his way to the couch. If anyone wanted him to do things differently, they’d tell him.  
  
Alex finished his eggs and left the plate on the coffee table, near Yassen’s laptop. He’d clean it up later.

“Alex,” Yassen said. “You kept your end of the deal.” He tossed a red object at Alex.

A small, mini-can of Coke.  
  
He took it and put it in the fridge. Ignoring Yassen, he picked up _Carrie_ and sprawled on the couch.  
  
He was in the middle of the infamous prom scene when the door to the apt opened and Al-Najd walked in, holding some folded papers.  
  
“Boy”, he said. Alex eyed the terrorist warily.  
  
“Stand here.” Al-Najd pointed to a blank wall next to the door. “You’re about to do something what I bet you thought only happened in movies.” He offered the folded papers to Alex. Wordlessly Alex took it and flattened the papers. The words were in Arabic, but it was undoubtedly a newspaper. The date was in the top corner.  
  
“Aim it this way,” Al-Najd said. Alex held it up below his face and Al-Najd snapped a picture.  
  
“Could have smiled,” the terrorist boss said. He took the paper back and smiled himself. “Keep behaving and I’ll get you a phone call with a family member. Your uncle raised you, so maybe your parents? If they aren’t in the picture a grandmother then.”  
  
He turned around and spoke to Yassen in Arabic briefly, then left the room. Alex walked back to his couch and picked up the book. He knew Yassen was looking his way but fuck him. Alex sat down and began to read again.  
  
Pretended to read. He’d never been a huge book reader. Yassen didn’t say anything, and Alex heard chopping from the kitchen. Bastard. And his taste in music was ridiculous.  
  
Yassen announced that lunch was ready not much later. Alex wasn’t hungry. He went to the bedroom and closed the door. He didn’t reemerge until the music stopped, replaced by several voices.

Several people, mostly men he’d never seen before, were seated on the couches. All of them except for Yassen were wearing thawbs. Yassen looked up, and Alex turned away before they made eye contact. He walked to the fridge for his coke. The counters were cleaned of whatever meal had been prepped earlier. He drank it leaning against the wall, studying the opposite wall and wishing he spoken Arabic. But Alex wouldn’t be the model prisoner if he understood the plotting that was happening around him. Perhaps he should be grateful that he didn’t recognize the Arabic language. If he did, he may be locked inside a cell instead of here. Then again, it would be easier to escape a cell.  
  
A harsh phrase, sounding like a command, was uttered. A boy not much older than Alex walked to the kitchen, saw the kettle was on the stove, and began boiling water. Alex reached for the tea in the cabinet and pushed it along the counter towards the boy. The boy looked at Alex then quickly ducked his head. He muttered something.  
  
The boy was dressed entirely in black. Another ‘servant’. Alex’s stomach twisted. He watched the boy take the tea and he felt worse when he saw the hand holding the packet of teas was missing a finger.  
  
Alex looked at the men gathered. Which of them had done it? Yassen? For what reason? He felt sour looking at them.

The image on the tv was different. Not images of the compound, but aerial footage of a city. What was happening? Alex crept forward. He glanced behind him to see the boy watching him with wide eyes. Alex put a finger to his lips.  
  
He walked forward. They all had their backs to him. Alex walked behind the couch and spotted an open file folder. Images of the outside of a brick building were scattered in one corner, a large poster with a building’s layout lay across most of the table, and a picture of a small bomb was lain across the poster.  
  
They were going to plant a bomb. Alex gasped. He immediately regretted that action when half of the assembled men turned to face him.  
  
A large man pointed at Alex and exclaimed.  
  
Yassen’s answer was calm.  
  
Alex didn’t pretend to have an excuse. He stared at the images.  
  
A man with a thick beard got up and grabbed Alex by the arms. He shook him, asking something in Arabic.  
  
Yassen spoke rapidly.  
  
Bearded man pulled a pen knife out of his robe and flicked it open. He put one end below Alex’s right eye. The tip of the knife was too close for his vision to focus on.  
  
Alex held himself still. His breathing stalled. Yassen stood up slowly. He held a hand out and said a few words. The knife hesitated then withdrew, one of bearded man’s hands still wrapped around Alex’s arm. The man cursed, shook Alex another time, then threw him back.  
  
Yassen was eyeing at him steadily. Alex surveyed the men around the room, now all staring at him. He stumbled backwards, into the table. He shook his head, then all but ran into the bedroom.  
  
Alex looked around the room. His adrenaline was pumping. He felt as terrified as he’d been the entire time here.  
  
There were no windows, no way out. Solid concrete walls and ceiling. But there was a dresser. It wouldn’t hold the door closed, as the door opened out. But it would make it harder to get in.  
  
They would get in though, if they wanted. There were loud voices outside, probably an argument. Alex felt himself shaking. He’d been moments away from unspeakable horrors, and they could still be coming. Desperately he climbed under the bed, hoping if they came for him he’d at least get a kick in.  
  
They didn’t come.  
  
Time passed, and Alex felt his heartbeat return to normal. Eventually he pulled himself out from bed. He put an ear to the door. Through the door it all sounded like murmurs. Alex grimaced and opened the door.

Only one man was left talking with Yassen. His face was lined with age. He was listening intently.

  
Yassen kept talking. Alex let go of the door handle. He realized he was still trembling. He turned to the kitchen. The boy from before was standing against kitchen cabinets and the sink, eyes cast down. The old man spoke sharply and the boy looked up, saw Alex, and moved away from him. Alex flinched. There was a fresh palm print on the boy’s face. It hadn’t been there before Alex had decided to get close to the information.  
  
Walking carefully away from the boy, Alex opened the fridge to see what was in there. Chopped cucumber, whole tomatoes, lettuce, hummus, and fresh bread. He could make a vegetarian wrap from this. Not that Alex was hungry. He mostly craved distraction. Doing mundane actions that didn’t involve thinking about the human lives at risk now, while Alex could do nothing.

He grabbed the tomatoes and began to chop them into small pieces. When those were finished, he tossed them in a contained and threw them in the fridge. Then he pulled out the lettuce and began to do the same thing. Eventually he was finished with that too. Alex put the slices vegetable away and began to clean with one hand, keeping the knife loose in his other hand.

The old man and Yassen stood and walked to the door. The servant boy walked to the door as well. The visitors left.

  
Alex held the knife in his hand loosely. He tightened it when he saw Yassen face him.  
  
Yassen arched an eyebrow. “Are you done?”  
  
After a second of hesitation, Alex held out the knife. Yassen took it and stepped closer.  
  
Alex flinched and retreated. Yassen put the knife back in its sheath and slid it into its drawer.  
  
“Sit where I can see you.”  
  
Alex nodded dumbly. He sat on the edge of the couch, fingers pressed into the fabric.  
  
Yassen put a bowl of orange fruits on the table. “You can eat some,” he said, nodding at them..  
  
“What did they want to do with me?” Alex said. It was the first he’d spoken since Yassen had told him to be quiet yesterday.  
  
“Are you done with your silent treatment now?” Yassen noted.  
  
“Just tell me,” Alex said. “What did the bearded man say? The one who was shaking me.”  
  
“His eyes offend me.”  
  
“What did you say?”  
  
“He’s not yours.” Meaning, Alex supposed, that Yassen got to choose the punishment.  
  
“I’m not anyone’s,” Alex said. He was surprised how tired he sounded. Yassen ate one of the orange fruits.  
  
“You are, at this moment, the property of my boss.”  
  
“Meaning your boss has a more valuable hostage if he has both of his eyes.”  
  
“Meaning my job is not to be the eyes of a blind boy.”  
  
Alex shuddered and crossed his arms. “I’m not going to say thank you.” He spoke in a low voice.  
  
Yassen regarded him for a moment. “I will say you’re welcome anyway.”  
  
“You’re not going to hurt me?”  
  
“For what?”

Alex shrugged.

“Curiosity? I hadn’t given you any instructions. If I thought you were a threat to any operation, I would have.”

Alex considered being irritated that Yassen didn’t consider him a danger. Instead he protested the injustice he had seen . “They hit the servant just because he was in the room. He didn’t do anything.”  
  
Annoyance crossed Yassen’s face. “Yes.”

Alex paused. Yassen had appeared genuinely irritated that the boy had been hit. Was this a flash of humanity? Remembrance of his own time in servitude? Or perhaps Yassen hadn’t asked anyone to be hit and saw this as upsetting his power.  
  
“I’ll do it again,” Alex said. “Even if people are hurt, I’m going to find a way to bring down your boss.”  
  
Yassen looked amused. “You’re tired.”  
  
“Don’t tell me what I am,” Alex replied.  
  
There was a beeping noise. Yassen glanced at his phone. “Wash your face. I’m going to see Issam again.”  
  
“Why does he care if I’m a mess?”  
  
“He won’t,” Yassen agreed. “Your servant friend will.”  
  
Alex went to the restroom and washed his face.  
  
The hood that went over his head was becoming an uncomfortably familiar sensation.  
  
Mohammad didn’t look happy to see Alex but he did look...oddly, relieved. While Mustache and Yassen spoke to each other at the desk, Mohammad reached over and gave Alex’s arm a squeeze.  
  
What did he think was happening to Alex? Well, probably a lot. Alex regarded Yassen. If the man didn’t have such an attachment to Alex because of John Rider, his conditions would be worse. Alex was a captive, but he had clean clothes, food, and some entertainment. Alex thought of the knife under his eye earlier that day and shuddered internally. And he had some protection, he admitted begrudgingly. Yassen was a lot of things to Alex, torturer and Ian’s killer foremost among them, but he had been acting to protect him too.  
  
Mustache snapped his fingers and Mohammad sprang forward to fill a water cup on the desk.

  
Again, Mustache stood to leave for a minute. The moment he did Alex turned to Mohammad and tried to communicate his thanks for the prayer paper.

“Can you tell me how to say thank you?” Alex asked.

“No.” Yassen didn’t turn around.

Mohammad was speaking to Alex slowly with exaggerated hand motions. Alex had no idea what he was trying to communicate.

Mohammad looked at Yassen. Too late, Alex realized that the older man was going to try and get Yassen to translate. “No,” he said, and tried to signal, but it was too late. Mohammad spoke, and the assassin turned around.

Angry words rang out. Alex looked with a start to the door. Mustache was staring at Mohammad with a vehement look on his face. The servant froze and trembled a bit. Mustache raised his voice and took a step forward, hand raised as if to strike the man.

Yassen interceded with a few words.

Mustache stopped. His words were still angry, but his face calmed. His arm lowered. He spoke a couple more words. Mohammad looked gratefully at Yassen and bowed, then left the room. Mustache followed.

Yassen stood to leave as well. Alex rose, still in shock. “He was mad because Mohammad was speaking to you,” Alex said. “What did he say?”

“Which person?”

“Mustache,” Alex blurted without thinking, immediately realizing that his nickname for Mohammad’s boss was not the man’s real name.

Yassen gave Alex a flat look. “I’ll assume I know who you’re referring to.”

“Well, what did he say?” Alex insisted.

“I’ve told you before that I’m not your translator.”

“You said something,” Alex said. “You said something, and he stopped.”

Yassen considered Alex.

“I said that I had asked him a question.”

Yassen had lied. For Mohammad. Or for Alex?  
  
Alex considered the possibilities while being led through the hallways. What happened to a slave who spoke first? Nothing good. Would it be better or worse that Mohammad had been speaking to another prisoner or speaking without permission?

The boy from earlier had been missing a finger. What had he possibly done to deserve that? Alex knew a few Middle Eastern countries still used lashing as a punishment from the state.

With regret, Alex realized how much of a child he had been, playing games with a slave behind the backs of the men who had the power to kill him. If Yassen were a different man he would have reported the game. Mohammad would have been hurt. The servant had taken a great risk to play that game, perhaps because he thought Alex needed the reassurance of a friendly face. 

Removed from the hood, Alex slumped against the wall. Yassen went to the kitchen and began to prep for dinner.

Alex hated him. Didn’t he? He had told Yassen so on several occasions. He had promised to kill Yassen, and then months later actually tried to kill him. Yassen had tortured him. (He hadn’t looked guilty about it either). And now Yassen was covering for him.

  
“Thanks for helping Mohammad.” Alex paused for a second, then repeated, “Thanks.”  
  
Yassen regarded Alex and nodded, then looked away again. Alex sat uncertainly.  
  
“Do you need help?” Alex offered.  
  
“No, thank you Alex,” Yassen said. His tone implied that Alex could go away now.  
  
Alex’s cheeks flared. Fine. He’d offered. He was trying to be a model hostage. For once he hadn’t been thinking of escape at the back of his mind. Or how much he hated being here.  
  
Alex went into the room that had become his room except when Yassen was getting clothes and buried himself in the covers. He wanted to be home. He wanted to hug Jack, who he was never going to see again. He wanted to not feel lonely, to be with Ian and Jack, and feel like someone cared. Aloof as Ian sometimes was, Alex had never doubted that he cared. A lump lodged in Alex’s throat. This wasn’t fair.  
  
“Fuck,” Alex exhaled. This strategy of self-pity and outward anger wasn’t working. Was never going to work. If the most Alex got from Yassen was tolerance and random ‘kindness’, or leniency, Alex would never get anywhere. Maybe he would stop a few servants from getting hurt, but that wasn’t all Alex wanted. And maybe he could get more.  
  
Alex walked outside with a purpose. “My godfather told me about you.”  
  
Yassen looked up from the sink, where he was cleaning Alex’s plate from earlier.  
  
“And about my dad and you. He said my dad tried to get MI6 to take you back to England with him.”  
  
Yassen put the plate down. His eyes were fixed intently on Alex.  
  
Alex paused, then continued. “My dad really wanted them to get you out. They said no. He tried to argue with them.” Alex looked down. “Sorry they didn’t take you.”  
  
Neither of them said anything. Alex shrugged and went back to his bed. He put his head down and closed his eyes. Just a few minutes of rest.  
  
Alex woke to someone shaking his shoulder. “Up.”  
  
Alex pushed himself out of bed. Yassen was waiting by the door to the room with a familiar cloth in his hands.  
  
“Where to now?” Alex asked, surprised to realize he was scared. What if Yassen didn’t believe him? Or thought Alex was trying to manipulate him? Which he was. “The Dungeons of Doom?”  
  
Yassen handed the bag to Alex for him to put it on. Yassen led him by the upper arm through a labyrinth of hallways, and suddenly it was humid and warm. Yassen let go of Alex. Alex cautiously reached for the bag over his head. When no one said anything, he took it off.  
  
“We’re outside.” Alex said, realizing that it had been days since he’d been in the heat of the Middle East. He was in a large courtyard with palm trees and small plants, and several benches. The one he’d seen on the television. Two men were smoking on the far side of the courtyard.  
  
Yassen was sitting on a bench under a date tree, and he was pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.  
  
“Those will kill you,” Alex said.  
  
Yassen raised an eyebrow.  
  
Alex looked up at the sky with its crescent moon. The stars were brighter here than in London.  
  
A man exclaimed. Alex turned, startled, and saw Mohammad, coming outside with a man holding a gun close behind. Alex froze, hearing Yassen say something in Arabic behind him. The man with the gun nodded and went to stand in the far side of the courtyard, by the two men smoking.  
  
The man grabbed Alex by both shoulders and pulled him close, into an embrace. Alex looked back and saw Yassen leaning back and smoking, seemingly ignoring the two.  
  
“I don’t understand.” Alex said. He needed to believe this wasn’t a trick to make him care about the man before the guard executed him. It didn’t seem Yassen’s style...but he was a trained killer. He knew how to make someone suffer. And Alex had just blown up the man’s image of the past...but not in a bad way. John Rider had cared about Yassen. Hadn’t wanted to betray him. So why would Yassen repay that knowledge with pain?  
  
“You have until I finish,” Yassen nodded at the cigarette.  
  
“And then?”  
  
“We go back inside.”  
  
Alex turned and embraced Mohammad in return. He didn’t know him that well, but he was the first friendly face Alex had seen after days of torture and captivity in this compound.

“I’m not translating for you,” Yassen said.

“That’s fine.”

Alex pointed at Mohammad, then gave a thumbs up, thumbs in the middle, and thumbs down. Mohammad shook his head. He touched Alex’s forehead and said several words in the same different dialect of Arabic or language related to Arabic.

“Is that Arabic?” Alex asked, hoping Mohammad either recognize the word for his (possible) language, or that Yassen would answer. Neither happened.

Mohammad tried to say something to Yassen. The response he was given was short.

Yassen was looking away. Good. Alex pointed to Yassen and then made a ‘keep away’ gesture. Whatever Yassen had done and was doing for Alex, the man was bad news.

Mohammad frowned. He pointed at Yassen skeptically. Alex realized with dismay that the only interactions between the two men had been neutral to positive. The killer had ignored Alex playing a game with Mohammad, had protected Mohammad without a clear reason.

In general, Mohammad had seen the assassin’s typical routine of ignoring Alex and mistaken it for kindness. And perhaps it was. For Alex. No one else. 

When Mohammad had been looking at Alex with concern earlier, it must have only been because Alex was a prisoner, and not specifically because Alex was trapped in small proximity with Yassen.

“No,” Alex said, hoping that Mohammad understood at least that one word of English. “No,” he pointed to Yassen again. He shook his head.

Mohammad nodded and put his hands up in surrender. He mimicked Alex’s motions. Then he looked at Alex with concern. Alex realized in desperation that he was only making it worse. Now the man thought Alex was in danger. Which—yes, if MI6 did anything—but no as well.

“I’m ok,” Alex said, and pointed at himself and gave a thumbs in the middle.

Yassen stood and called across the courtyard. The man with a gun came back and said a harsh word to Mohammad. The man pressed his palm against Alex’s cheek before departing.  
  
Alex watched the man leave, guard on his tail.  
  
“His boss can’t find out.” Alex said desperately.  
  
“I don’t intend that to happen.” Yassen said. “But if it does, then I will explain.”  
  
“Ok.”

At the worry in Alex’s voice, Yassen faced him. “He’ll be fine.”  
  
Alex nodded reluctantly. Yassen looked out onto the courtyard.  
  
“Thank you for sharing what you did, Alex.”  
  
“Sure.” Alex stared at the stars. “Sorry I didn’t tell you earlier.”  
  
Yassen put his cigarette out against the bench. “It would have made no difference.”  
  
“You still would have tortured me, you mean.”  
  
“It wasn’t, but that still would have happened. It will happen again, if I need to.”  
  
Codewords for ‘if you try anything.’ An icy shiver ran down Alex’s spine.  
  
“Nothing here is right,” Alex said in despair. “People are being held as slaves, people are planning bombs, people will get hurt.”  
  
“Alex, we are not on the same side.” Yassen said. “Grateful as I am to know that John wanted me in England working for MI6, they were not where I spent the last decade and a half working.”  
  
“I know,” Alex whispered.  
  
“Good.” Yassen stood. “Then we are on the same page.”


	5. Nightmares

Yassen was very good at his job. But he wasn’t perfect. Despite his warning, he hadn’t notice Alex slip a small knife into his joggers’ pocket yesterday afternoon. Alex had shoved it under the mattress as soon as he was able. He knew that the outline of a sharp object wasn’t exactly inconspicuous.

And the assassin was only human. He still showered. And Alex was stuck with him, at the assassin’s own request. Which meant Yassen needed to do something with Alex during his time in the shower.

Yassen had only cuffed one of Alex’s hands. The other cuff was around the bed frame. Alex reached with his right hand for the knife.

Ian had taught Alex how to escape handcuffs for a ‘magic trick’ when Alex was young. It was another trick that had amused Alex at the same, like pickpocketing, but looking back Alex was filled with a sort of wary unease. Just what had Ian been planning for him?

Alex had used a paperclip to loosen the cuffs when Ian taught him, but conceivably this would work the same way. Alex used his free hand to put the sharp point of the knife into the keyhole. He wiggled it until he felt it catch. Careful – careful.

The cuffs loosened. Alex reached for the cuff securing his wrist and pulled it off.

He was free.

Alex didn’t stop to put his shoes on. He’d gone around the past few days barefoot, and while he knew the ground outside the compound would be hot, he had to get there first. Yassen was never in the restroom for long.

Alex walked through the hallway, knowing he didn’t look like belonged. But no one was out. Alex followed the hallway to a right and then an immediate left, until he came to a large and elaborately hand carved doorway. This had to be the way outside.

It was. But not outside the compound. Alex was in the courtyard. And he wasn’t alone.

A handful of women, covered in black robes and veils, cast their horrified eyes onto Alex. “Sorry,” Alex stammered. He looked around the courtyard. He knew there were four doors here; he’d seen it on the cameras. Ignoring the women, who stepped back as Alex passed, he rushed across the path to the nearest door.

He slipped inside quietly, hoping the women were not going to call for someone to find him. It should help that he had dressed in all black this morning. He could just be another slave.

There were three doors in this hallway. None of them looked like a doorway. One of the doors was open. Alex stood next to the doorway and peeked inside.

A dining hall. Four men were laughing and eating. None of them saw him.

Alex walked with intent to the end of the hallway. He turned left. There were five doorways in this hall. None of them looked any different than the three he’d just passed. Alex kept walking. Around the corner there were stairs, and a big lounge. On the left wall was another elegant doorway, although windows revealed that this was also to the courtyard. There was an archway on the right, and through it was a large room with mats on the floor. A prayer room. Someone dressed all in black was coming down the stairs. Alex forced himself to breathe normally and he walked forward. The hallway across the room was his best chance out.

The servant said something to Alex. Alex mumbled an approximation of Arabic sounds and kept walking. The servant said something louder. Fuck. Alex broke into a brisk trot. He ran through the hallway, leaving the servant behind.

He turned another left corner and stopped. The door out.

And he wasn’t alone.

There was a guard next to the door, speaking into a walkie talkie. Alex swallowed. The guard had a Glock 17.

The guard stared at Alex and frantically spoke into his walkie talkie. Alex took a step back, then turned and ran. He didn’t think the guard would shoot him in the back. He was too valuable a hostage.

Alex retraced his steps to the courtyard. The women were talking excitedly, and one of them walked up to Alex and tried to shoo him away.

A woman exclaimed in alarm. Alex turned to face her and saw that he was out of time.

Yassen pulled a gun from his waistband. Alex put his hands in the air.

The women moved in a crowd to the other end of the courtyard. A few slipped inside, while the others stayed, watching. One woman hid her face.

The assassin stepped closer. Alex stayed still. “You had to know that this was going to fail,” Yassen said quietly.  
  
Alex didn’t answer. Yes, he’d know his chances, from the moment he had gotten the handcuff off. Or at least, he’d suspected them. But he couldn’t stay here forever. Days had been proceeding without any mention of Alex getting returned to MI6.

“This way,” Yassen tilted his head. His gun didn’t waver.  
\---

Alex’s arms were chained behind the chair. His feet were cuffed to the chair’s legs. Alex tried to suppress a flinch when Yassen reappeared with pliers. He knew he failed. Yassen knelt and held one of Alex’s feet secure. Alex bit on his lip.

He punctured his lip when the nail came off.

The next four were worse. Alex tried to suppress his screams. Tears ran a path down his face. He gasped a curse once and was slapped with force.

Yassen disappeared to put the pliers away and came back with a first aid kit. He put it on the floor, out of reach.

Wordlessly Yassen drew out his lighter. He flicked it on.

Alex watched the lighter with watering eyes.

His arm was burning.

Decades later the assassin stepped away from the spy. 

“I’ll stop,” Alex whimpered. “I won’t do anything else.” He looked at his tortured foot with appalled eyes. There was so much blood.

Yassen examined him. “You knew there would be consequences, and you tried to run anyway,” he said. “Perhaps you would try again, despite this.”

“No,” Alex whispered.

Yassen turned away and pulled out his phone. He made a call, while walking to stand behind Alex.

Alex wished he understood. He wished he didn’t. He wanted this to end. Minutes passed while his foot throbbed in pain.

A man with a bag over his head was pushed into the room by the same guard that had stood at the door. The man was forced to his knees. Alex realized who it was moments before the guard unveiled the man.

“No,” he said in fear. “No, no, stop it, no!” He pulled without reason at the cuffs holding his hands and tried to look for Yassen behind him. Yassen gripped him by the neck and forced him to look forward.

Mohammad was trembling. His eyes met Alex’s in confusion, and his expression turned to horror as he took in the spy’s condition.

“I’m sorry,” Alex cried.

Yassen gave a command, and the guard kicked Mohammad in his bad knee. The man cried out in surprise and pain.

Alex moaned. The hand on his neck tightened minutely.

The guard kicked Mohammad in the back and the servant put his hands out in front of him. Alex watched as the guard stepped on the older man’s hand. The servant gasped in pain.

The beating continued until the assassin barked a word. The hand on Alex’s neck disappeared. The guard stepped back. Alex’s guts clenched. Yassen stepped into view. He was holding his gun.

 _It was going to happen again._ Someone was going to die, because they had gotten close to Alex. This was his fault.

“Please,” Alex begged, knowing this it was futile as begging Julian not to kill Jack. “I’ll do anything you want, I won’t run away, keep me tied up all day, anything.” Tears were running down his face. He had to offer to do more, had to offer something else, but he didn’t know what would appeal to a man without morals. “Hurt me instead. I’ll take it. Shoot me!”

The assassin pressed his gun against Mohammad’s head.

“Yassen,” Alex screamed. “ _Please_!”

The end of the gun disappeared in Mohammad’s hair. The servant chanted a soft prayer. His eyes were closed. Alex closed his own eyes and turned his head away. He couldn’t do it again.

“Alex, look at me,” Yassen said.

Hot tears forced their ways out of Alex’s eyes. He tensed, and then, knowing there was no other way, he turned his head. Opened his eyes.

Alex looked at Mohammad. At the gun digging into his friend’s head. At Yassen. 

The assassin stared back coldly.

“Next time,” Yassen promised.

And then it was over.

Yassen put his gun away.

Mohammad collapsed fully onto the ground and sang several words. Alex recognized the word for God several times.

The guard came back into the foreground and forced Mohammad up. He pushed the servant out of the room.

Alex was numb.  
\---

Alex collapsed into bed. His eyes were swollen from crying. His foot was bandaged. His head hurt. He closed his eyes, and as one sense disappeared the heat in his head seemed to magnify.

Light footsteps indicated Yassen’s presence.

“Please,” Alex whispered. “Don’t do that again.”

A cool hand brushed the hair from Alex’s forehead. Alex shuddered.

“Sleep,” Yassen said.  
\---  
“Someone who hated me killed my housekeeper that way.” Alex said. It hurt to talk after yesterday. And to reference Jack as just his housekeeper. And to mention her death.

But Alex had to get Yassen to understand. The assassin killed people – but he couldn’t kill Mohammad. Not because of Alex. It would be too horrible.  
  
“A gun?” Yassen asked. He was sitting across the table over breakfast, face a blank slate.  
  
Alex shook his head. “A bomb. But I was begging. And crying. Same as yesterday. And it was my fault she was in that place.” Alex said.  
  
“I doubt her death was your fault.”  
  
Alex glanced at Yassen. The man had no idea if it was Alex’s fault or not. Did he? Maybe he just thought Alex needed to hear that at the moment. Since when did Yassen care what people needed? “I’ll do whatever you say. Anything. Please don’t hurt him,” Alex pleaded. “I can’t watch it again.”  
  
“You can start by cleaning the dishes,” Yassen replied.

\---  
  
“I have a headache,” Alex said.  
  
Yassen picked up the remote and turned down the music that was playing. He disappeared from Alex’s vision briefly, then reappeared with two pills and a glass of water.  
  
“Take these.”  
  
Alex did. He lay down on the couch, closing his eyes. “Did you tell your boss that I ...”  
  
“Yes. And that I had taken care of it.”  
  
“He didn’t want to cut off an ear?” Alex asked.  
  
“He trusted me to handle it.”  
  
Alex nodded. Drifted in and out of sleep. Thoughts, transient and half formed, fluttered in his head between stabs of pain and the relief of dozing.  
  
Where did he stand with Yassen? The man had tortured him. Again. And threatened an innocent man with death.  
  
He’d let Mohammad live.  
  
He had stayed with Alex until he fell asleep.  
  
Breakfast was still there in the morning.  
  
Alex didn’t trust his feelings. He was too disoriented from the events to feel hatred or anger. There was just a burning pit of horror that it had almost happened again. An innocent life taken because of Alex’s actions.  
  
Yassen hadn’t done it. Mohammad was alive.  
  
Alex finally must have slipped into a real sleep because the next thing he knew he was waking to the sound of music, still playing softly.  
  
Alex sat up and looked around. A half dozen rooms on the tv, monitored from above. An empty kitchen. An empty living room. This was a test. Alex leaned back against the sofa. He couldn’t try escape a second time. It would hurt too much. For him, and everyone around him.  
  
The bedroom door opened. Yassen stepped out, dressed for the gym again. “Little one,” he greeted.  
  
“When do I get to go home?” Alex asked. He felt as exhausted as he’d ever felt, after waking to the fear of a test.  
  
Yassen shrugged. “If I knew, I would tell you.” Seemingly finding something in Alex’s expression, he added, “Soon. MI6 is restless without their little spy.”  
  
A little after they came back from the gym there was a knock on the door.  
  
Al-Najd entered without invitation.

“Hello,” he greeted. “MI6 boy.”

Alex looked over with dread. Yassen had punished him already. That didn’t mean it couldn’t get worse.

Al-Najd frowned. “I said if you behave you get a phone call home. But I hear you’ve been trouble.”  
  
Was that all? “There’s no one at home for me anyway.”  
  
“Then you haven’t lost much.” Al-Najd’s frown softened. “Time for another phone call though. Proof of life.”

Al-Najd handed his phone to Alex. “Don’t say anything you’ll regret. Now, speakerphone, boy.”

Alex looked at the phone. He pressed the speakerphone button.

“Alex?” Mrs. Jones asked.

“I’m here,” he said, mouth dry. This was the first proof of negotiations to secure his release he’d had.  
  
“Are you alright?” Mrs. Jones words rang in his ears.  
  
“I’m alive.” He knew the words weren’t the same thing, but right now it was about all he could admit to.  
  
“You said he wasn’t hurt,” Mrs. Jones snapped.  
  
“He’s in one piece,” Al-Najd said. “I can change that if you get demanding.”  
  
Reluctantly, Alex met Yassen’s eyes. The other man was unreadable. Alex sighed. Of course. He just wanted this to be over.  
  
“I’m alright, Mrs. Jones. I’m not - no one’s doing anything to me right now.”  
  
“Right now?” Her voice was full of concern.  
  
“Your spy had an escape attempt,” Al-Najd replied. “I hear he was taught a lesson but ask him for more details.”  
  
“Alex,” Mrs. Jones said, and there was a note of alarm in her tone that Alex had never heard before.  
  
“I’m fine,” Alex said. “Really.”  
  
There was silence on the phone for a minute. Al-Najd seemed irritated. “Are you there?” He questioned sharply.  
  
“I’m here,” Mrs. Jones replied. “Alex, we’re working on a deal to get you back. Just listen to what they say.”  
  
“Sure,” Alex replied. He handed the phone back to the terrorist. The man hung up.  
  
“I would tie him up.” Al-Najd said.  
  
Yassen glanced at Alex. “He’s not going to cause trouble again.”   
\---  
Alex had been sitting with his hands buried in his hands for centuries. He wished he could sleep, but he’d slept for three hours and then woken up in a cold sweat, shaking in fear. He’d showered and considered sleeping again; but the threat of nightmares was too real. Perhaps luckily, Yassen had been up, as indicated by the light under the door. When Alex had knocked to be let out, the man had complied. Since then Alex had been resting against the wall.

He didn’t want to be with Yassen.

He didn’t want to be alone.  
  
Alex could try to sleep again. But he couldn’t stand another nightmare.  
  
Alex put his hands down and regarded the room blearily. Two of his collection of books were on the couch he was starting to view as ‘his’. Yassen was writing notes into a binder, and two more binders were stacked on the coffee table, next to two cups of tea. Two? Alex caught Yassen’s gaze and pointed at the cup closer to himself.  
  
“That’s for you,” Yassen agreed.  
  
Oh. “Thanks,” Alex said, and went to retrieve the mug. He sat on the couch and eyed the books next to him. Poetry tomes. Right. Halfheartedly, Alex opened the first book and flipped through it. Ten minutes later he gave up. The words were swimming in front of him.

He wished it was days ago, when their relationship had been established. Alex complained; Yassen ignored. Swearing was sometimes tolerated.

He didn’t know what it was now. Alex hesitated. He could try to return to normalcy. It depended on the killer next to him. He summoned the energy to play himself.

“I hate poetry,” Alex said.

“Read something else.” Yassen suggested.  
  
Alex made a face and tried the tea. It was nearly cold, making him realize Yassen must have made it a while ago.  
  
“I should hate you right now.” He wanted to hate Yassen right now.  
  
“And instead you respect me?” Yassen queried in a dry tone.

No. But. “You didn’t kill Mohammad.” Alex said.  
  
Yassen frowned.  
  
“I never would have forgiven you if you had.”  
  
“You never would have forgiven yourself,” Yassen corrected.  
  
He was right. Alex knew that however much he blamed Yassen, he would blame himself twice the amount. Yassen would kill the man, but Alex’s action would pass the sentence. He had been warned.  
  
Alex made another face and slumped against the couch.  
  
“It’s still night,” Yassen said. “You should get more sleep.”  
  
“I don’t want nightmares.” Alex drowned half his tea, hoping the caffeine would jumpstart his brain.  
  
“And your plan is to never sleep again?”  
  
“No.” Alex scowled. “Just not right now.”  
  
Yassen stood up, stretched, and suggested he was going to try the gym. He went to change, then hid Alex’s head in the hood and led him to the gym.  
\---

Alex was practicing his karate forms again when Yassen approached.  
  
“Is that helpful?” Yassen asked.  
  
“For what?”  
  
“Staying awake.” Yassen moved closer to Alex, within striking range. If he stayed there and Alex continued, he would get punched. Alex considered striking and claiming it was part of his form and he hadn’t met to hit Yassen, then tossed the idea away. It was petty. Alex may well end up hurt worse because of it.  
  
“You’re in my way,” Alex said instead. “You’ll end up hit if you stay there.”  
  
Yassen considered him. “If you can hit me, I’ll give you another soda,” he said instead, lightly.  
  
Alex blinked, surprised. Was this a joke? “I don’t really want to be hurt by you again. Not on my list of things to do. So thanks, but no thanks.”  
  
The older man laughed. It was the first time Alex had seen Yassen not serious or just calm.  
  
Alex took a step to the side, and continued his form, his heart beating. When Yassen turned to go back to the weights, Alex struck.  
  
Yassen stepped to the side. He turned to face Alex, hands relaxed at his side. Alex stumbled to a stop and tried again, pretending to attack to the left then switching to the right at the last millisecond. Yassen blocked the hit easily and took another step back. “This would be easier if you stayed still,” Alex said.  
  
“Probably,” Yassen agreed. Before Yassen had finished speaking Alex stepped forward and tried to lunge at Yassen’s feet. The man stepped aside. Alex rolled to the side after he hit the floor and jumped up into a sparring stance. Yassen, coolly, folded his arms.  
  
“You should give yourself a handicap,” Alex said. “My toes hurt if they touch anything because they don’t have fucking nails.”  
  
“So because you acted stupidly and faced consequences, I should be handicapped?”  
  
Alex scowled at the ground. He counted to ten, and then attacked.  
  
Five minutes later, Alex lay panting, pinned to the ground under Yassen’s boot. “Ow,” Alex grumbled.  
  
Yassen removed his foot and looked down at Alex. “Done?” He said mildly.  
  
Alex leaned up, a plan in mind. He reached up and tapped Yassen on the leg. “Yes. And I win.”  
  
Yassen laughed and offered a hand to Alex. It took all Alex had not to cringe into the floor. He paused, then took the hand and was pulled to his feet.  
\---  
Bastard. Murderer. His normal vitriol was absent, Alex knew. It was just a knot of fear in his stomach now. It had been there since the moment Yassen had found him trying to escape.  
  
The knot had loosened slightly while sparring. It had loosened significantly more when Mohammad had left the room alive, but what did that matter when the knot had been made five times worse the moment Mohammad had entered that room in the first place?  
  
Alex took another shower, and changed into clean black sweatpants and a plain grey shirt. He wrapped his toes up again using the bandages in the first aid kit in the counter. He needed to stay awake.  
  
Yassen was back on his laptop when Alex reemerged, hair wet from the shower and body demanding sleep.  
  
Did nightmares come in as little time as thirty minutes? Maybe just a nap would be alright. A went to the bedroom, grabbed his blanket, and brought it out to the couch. Yassen slept on these couches every night, and Alex had fallen asleep on them before, so they’d be comfortable enough. “Wake me up in thirty minutes,” Alex said, already feeling himself being pulled under.  
  
Sharp knives were working their way under his skin, he was in pain, someone was screaming...  
  
“Up,” a familiar voice said. A terrible voice, that brought pain. Alex felt someone touching his shoulder, shaking him hard enough to wake him.  
  
His eyes flew open. Who was screaming?  
  
No one. It was the dream. Alex unclenched his fists and tried to relax. It had felt so real.  
  
“Calm?” Yassen turned Alex’s face towards him, cool fingers lightly resting under Alex’s chin.  
  
“Yeah,” Alex whispered.  
  
Alex slowly got up and walked to the kitchen to put the kettle on. New tea would be good. He would even make some for Yassen. Call it a peace offering.  
  
Alex saw the time on the oven clock. “Guess you let me sleep for longer than thirty minutes.”  
  
“You needed it,” Yassen said.  
  
“I knew I was going to have nightmares,” Alex said.  
  
“Then you have nightmares. You have had them before, you will have them again, and you will survive them all.”  
  
“Not when the nightmare is real.” Alex muttered to himself. If he was overheard he was ignored.  
  
Alex found two clean cups, put fresh tea bags in them, and went to the fridge to grab milk.  
  
“Do you take milk in your tea?” Alex asked hesitantly.

“Some.”

Minutes later Alex returned to the couch, holding two cups of tea. He slid Yassen’s over without looking at the man. The man murmured thanks but did not reach for his cup. Alex sat back against his couch, cradling his tea. A queasy feeling filled the pit in Alex’s stomach.

It took most of an hour to work up the courage to ask the question on his mind.

“Why didn’t you kill him?”

The answer, when it came minutes later, wounded.

“He is your attachment in this place. If I killed him now, I would not have the same motivation for keeping you complacent.”

Had he expected ‘mercy’ to be the answer? No. Yassen was calculated. He didn’t even use Mohammad’s name. People weren’t people to the man – they were objects to use for his objectives.

“Why didn’t you kill me?” Alex asked, quieter.

Yassen peered at him. Alex knew the answer. He was too valuable a hostage. He just wanted…he didn’t know. Acknowledgement that he meant something. Yassen scrutinized Alex but said nothing.

Alex laid down on the couch again. His eyes flickered. He may be tired enough to sleep, and he´d still slept less than 6 hours. And he’d worked out. “Can you wake me up if I’m having a nightmare at least?”   
  
“I have already been doing that.”  
  
“Keep doing it?” He shouldn’t expose this weakness. He shouldn’t depend on Yassen. But he really couldn’t afford to make the pit in his stomach bigger.  
  
Yassen exhaled softly. “Yes, little Alex, I will keep doing it.”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I’ve been trying very hard to finish “It’s Not Over.” And that update will be out soon; I set June as the deadline and I’m willing to compromise by getting it out early/mid-July but no later. I plotted this story in such detail though that it was almost finished, and it didn’t make a lot of sense to delay putting out chapters that I have finished. Especially while still trying to figure out some scenes in the other story. So enjoy. Thanks to everyone who commented.


	6. Conversations

Ah, tranquility!

Penetrating the very rock,

A cicada’s voice.

**Matsuo Basho (1644-1694)**

Alex sighed and closed the book of poetry. He placed it on the floor next to him. No part of the haikus inside appealed to him. His teacher, the last time he had reliably attended class, had noticed that poetry was a form of prose developed to focus on the emotions people felt. Alex would have been fine reading about powerful emotion, painful as thinking about his own were. 

Unfortunately, the haikus in this book focused on nature.

Not a single poem laid out the feelings of utter terror that came from being held hostage by a group of terrorists, or the feeling that every time you spoke you were poking a tiger with a stick. Instead, the haikus spoke of softly falling rain, croaking frogs, and whispering winds. The only part of the book Alex found fascinating was the translator’s notes. Even that had been only a mild distraction from the worry that was eating at him. MI6 was taking too long. He’d been here too long. Al-Najd’s patience was going to run out, and they would start hurting Alex again. Yassen would do it. Alex knew with sick certainty that the assassin might not _want_ to hurt Alex, but previous events had proven that he would.

Alex watched Yassen. The man looked perfectly calm, dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt in a place where everyone else wore white robes. His eyes were focused on his laptop.

 _Ah, tranquility,_ Alex thought sardonically. Except this force of implacable _tranquility_ was planning the death of dozens.

Yassen looked up. Alex froze, realizing he’d been caught staring.

“Do you have a question?” The assassin's voice was calm, and Alex relaxed slightly.

Yes. He had dozens. None that he felt safe asking. Yassen’s inscrutable eyes glanced at him once more, and then turned away.

Alex exhaled. Gathered his courage.

“Is the bombing going to be soon?” Alex asked. “The one I saw plans for?”  
  
“Perhaps.”  
  
“Then why didn’t you care that I saw the plans?” Alex refused to believe he would be here forever, endless as some of the days had been. He hoped he wouldn’t be here forever.  
  
“Did you see the building address?” Yassen asked. “The country? The exact location?”

Alex’s silence was answer enough.

“So, your intelligence is that a brick building may be bombed at some point in the future,”  
Yassen summarized. “That is useless to your government.”  
  
“You know the exact location,” Alex responded. “You should defect.”  
  
Yassen glanced at Alex, nonplussed. “I should perhaps do many things. Working for MI6 is not any of those things.”  
  
“Perhaps,” Alex injected venom into the words, “You should commit suicide and save the world some evil.” He regretted the words as soon as they were spoken. He wasn’t prepared to be antagonistic right now. Even Yassen looked a bit taken aback by the tone.  
  
“Sorry,” he mumbled.  
  
“Are you?” Yassen asked.  
  
“I didn’t mean that,” Alex said. He shouldn’t have felt the need to explain himself, but he suddenly did. Not to mention his extreme desire to not anger his captor. “All those people though...the ones that will be killed. They don’t deserve it.”  
  
Yassen regarded Alex for a moment, warily. “Many people get what they don’t deserve. But maybe some do. You don’t know the people involved.”

“I doubt they’re all evil though,” Alex argued. “Even if a couple are terrible people, like child abusers, they won’t all be. Unless you’re targeting a serial killer convention.”

Yassen picked up his phone and checked something on the screen. “I’m sure several people you would call innocent will be hurt. But what loss is their life? Do they benefit you in some way?”

“So it only matters if it’s people you know,” Alex said. He ignored the line about people benefiting each other. If Yassen’s view of the world necessitated that only people who benefited you deserved to live…well, Alex couldn’t say it shocked him.  
  
Yassen shook his head. “I would not care if many people I knew were killed. And according to your standards, many people I know would deserve it.”  
  
“You know me.”  
  
“Yes,” Yassen admitted. “You are one person I would say does not deserve to die.”  
  
Alex frowned. “Did I deserve to be tortured?”  
  
“Which time?”  
  
“Both.”  
  
“The first time, perhaps not.” Yassen shrugged and put his phone away. “But it was my job. The second time, yes.”  
  
Nausea rose in Alex as he thought about the moments he was referring to. “You’re wrong. No one deserves that.”  
  
“Not even me?” Yassen raised an eyebrow and Alex looked away, thinking of his earlier comment. Harsh seemed an understatement for exactly how pointedly anti-Yassen it had been.  
  
“I wouldn’t do anything to you.” Yassen appeared skeptical. Alex remembered their first meeting, and his promise to kill the assassin one day. “You should be in jail, but they have human rights in jail.”  
  
“Hmm.”  
  
“And no one is dead,” Alex clarified. “You’d still be alive. Your way kills people! And then it hurts their families and friends, and everyone they care about!”  
  
“That doesn’t concern me.” Yassen stood. He took the remote and flipped through the rooms of the compound. Alex saw the absurdly small rooms stuffed with beds and the infirmary flip by, and wondered which Mohammad had spent the past few days in. He wasn’t going to ask Yassen.  
  
Alex took a breath. He knew he shouldn’t continue this. “Anyone could be killed in the bombing. What if one day you get lung cancer and you killed the person who could cure lung cancer?”  
  
“What if the bombing killed someone who would one day attempt to assassinate me?” Yassen wondered in return.  
  
“One of your sides’ bombs almost killed me. You just said I didn’t deserve to die. What if it killed me?” Alex glared.  
  
Yassen met and maintained eye contact. “I am glad that did not happen.”  
  
“But it could.”  
  
“It could.”  
—

This time Yassen had said yes to Alex’s offer to help in the kitchen, and Alex had been given a knife to cut the vegetables for a salad.

Alex searched for safe topics to talk about as he diced the lettuce. Maybe if he met common ground with the assassin, Yassen would be less likely to react negatively to whatever missteps Alex took in the future.

“Did you always like classical music?” Alex asked. It wasn’t his favorite – he preferred pop and hip-hop – but he’d attended a couple of symphonies with Ian growing up.

“I grew up hearing it,” Yassen responded.

“I went to the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra once,” Alex volunteered. “I liked it.”

“Do you have a favorite composer?”

Alex shrugged. “I don’t know classical music that well.”

Alex went to stand behind Yassen, who was washing a pan in the sink.

“Are you sure you should trust me with a knife?” Alex asked, with a small smile.

Yassen took the knife from Alex to wash.

“Do you think you could live with the guilt of,” he began levelly.

“Stop,” Alex said. “Sorry I asked.” His gaze dropped to the ground. So much for common ground.

Yassen handed the knife back to Alex. “I think you are smart enough for me to trust you with a knife, yes.”

Alex started on the cucumbers. He wished he was at home.

“Have you read all of your books?” Yassen asked, surprising Alex by taking the initiative.

“Most.”

“I’ll try to get you more.” Yassen smiled. “Should I be looking for a James Bond book?”

“I don’t really like adventure books.” _Anymore,_ Alex silently added.

“They’re unrealistic,” Yassen agreed.

Alex put the knife down. “I’d read a book about conversational Arabic.” He added, “Nothing that would let me know what you’re doing, I know that would make me…uh,” Alex hesitated over the right word.

“A liability?”

“Yeah.”

Yassen pulled out a bowl and began to gather the vegetables Alex had chopped into it.

“I’ll consider it.”

“When did you learn Arabic?” Alex asked.

“I started it at Malagosto,” Yassen said.

“I didn’t spend a lot of time on languages there,” Alex said. “I wasn’t there very long.”

Yassen nodded but didn’t press the subject. Alex searched for a change of topic. SCORPIA was not the common ground he’d been looking for.

“Do you read a lot?”

“I read when I have the time.”

“What kinds of books?”

Yassen tilted his head and seemed to choose his words with care. “I have read many things. Often they are in different languages so I can practice.”

Alex noticed that the man had avoided mentioning the subject of his books. Not something he wanted Alex to know then. Torture tactics and how-to’s on manipulation?

“Is it easier to read in Russian?”

“Compared to what language?”

“I don’t know. Arabic?” Yassen didn’t speak with an accent, so he had to find reading English comparatively easy.

“I have spent several years speaking Arabic more frequently than Russian,” Yassen noted.

Alex leaned against the cabinet and folded his arms. “So it’s not harder to read in?”

“No.”

The ingredients combined in the bowl, Yassen opened the oven to check on the meat.

“Get the meat out in 10 minutes,” Yassen instructed.

“Ok.”

“You’re eating alone tonight. I have a call.” Done with the conversation, the man left for the other part of the room.

That was unusual. Yassen always seemed to make time to eat separate from work. Alex uncrossed his arms and watched him go. A part of him felt concerned. Had he offended Yassen with his questions? If he had, the man had an odd way of showing it. No, Alex decided. It was probably nothing.

\---  
Alex hadn’t been sleeping well. Even in the air conditioning, he felt hot. He burned with the guilt of the people who had been killed, or almost killed, for him. His only method of keeping exhaustion at bay was to nap fitfully most of the day away, no doubt leaving Yassen relieved that he was unbothered as he worked. Not that he ever complained when Alex asked questions. To the contrary, he’d seemed approachable with how willing he was to respond to Alex’s queries. The past days’ conversations almost allowed Alex to believe he was on safe footing again.

“Sleep well?” Yassen inquired, as Alex shifted awake from his most recent nap.  
  
“I want my bed. At home. Where I want to be.” Alex spoke, voice muffled, into his pillow. He lay for a bit, then looked up with curiosity. “Do you have a home?”  
  
“I have a few apartments in various cities,” Yassen responded.  
  
Vague. “How many is a few?”  
  
“Between one and 10.”  
  
“Gee, that’s really helpful.” Alex lay his head down again, this time facing Yassen. The man was working on his laptop; big surprise. “But do you have a home?”  
  
At first it seemed Yassen was done playing question and answer. It surprised Alex when Yassen responded, minutes later. “What makes a place a home?”  
  
“Most people would say family.” Too late Alex realized that was the wrong answer.  
  
“Yes, I suppose you’re looking forward to going home to your parents,” Yassen agreed.  
  
Alex balked. That was a low blow. Though it was better than Yassen suggesting he was waiting to go home to Ian or Jack. Especially Jack. At least Alex didn’t remember his parents.

Alex considered continuing his questions. Yassen was…maybe not in the best mood right now. He’d tolerated a few questions, as he generally did. Yet the last response hurt. Was it meant to? Or was the assassin just as emotionless as usual?

In the end, pure inquisitiveness won the day. If he was going to end up banished to the other room for getting too personal, so be it. Alex thought (hoped) Yassen had enough patience not to physically hurt him. “Ian and Jack are dead, but their stuff is still there. At my house, I mean. Pictures of them. Do you have pictures of your family in a favorite apartment?”  
  
“No.”  
  
That was telling. Of what though? Maybe Yassen wanted to have family photos but never had the opportunity. Alternatively, he really didn’t care about his family. Immediately Alex realized any question along those lines ventured into deeply personal grounds. Yassen had a limit. He switched tactics. “Do you have a favorite apartment?”  
  
It took an even longer time for Yassen to answer this question. “I have a favorite city. We’ll say my favorite apartment is in that city.”  
  
“Which city?” Alex perked up.  
  
“You don’t need to know.”

“Moscow?” Alex guessed, thinking of the big Russian cities.

This time Yassen’s silence was permanent.  
—-

Yassen had been humoring Alex with some more casual conversations in the past days, but Alex was still beginning to lose his mind from boredom and fear. His nerves were on constant alert, and every time they left the room or someone new (or old) came into the apartment, some small part of him expected to end up tied to a chair and screaming. Luckily, so far when they had left the apartment it was mostly to the gym.

Except for this morning.

Yassen had needed to see Issam again. Alex had been led to the room often enough to recognize the turns on the path on the way there.

Mohammad hadn’t looked at Alex once.

The man’s hand had been wrapped in a bandage. It looked like standing was an effort.

Every time Yassen spoke, the servant had visually shaken. A part of Alex had wanted to hurt Yassen. The rest of him wanted to cry. It wasn’t fair! Alex was the hostage. He was the one who had tried to escape. Alex was the person who should have been beaten and threatened. But because Alex was a valuable captive, because he belonged to the government of a more powerful country, Alex was in no danger of losing his life.

He couldn’t eat lunch after the meeting.

Alex sat down on the floor. His mind was still stuck on how afraid Mohammad had been earlier that day. He felt worthless.

His despair was deep enough that he looked past the danger to ask the questions he’d been holding back on.

Alex stared at Yassen until the man looked back at him. “Who’s the most evil person you’ve ever worked for?”  
  
Yassen response came quickly. “I don’t rate the morality of my employers.”  
  
“Cray was pretty bad, though, right?” Alex asked. “He crushed someone to death under coins.”  
  
“Cray was incompetent,” Yassen said.  
  
“Did he become an embarrassment too?” Alex asked, thinking of Sayle.  
  
“In the end.”  
  
Alex shifted. “What’s the worst thing you’ve done, other than torturing a teenager?”  
  
“No,” Yassen replied.  
  
“No what?” Alex considered the options. “No, you’ve never done anything worse than torture a teenager or no, you’re not going to talk about it?” He waited a moment while Yassen didn’t answer. “It’s not like I can have a worse opinion of you.” That was a lie, but Alex wanted to allow himself the bravado of hatred.  
  
“I don’t care about your opinion of me.”  
  
“Then why not?” Alex pressed.  
  
“I would like you to sleep at night.”  
  
Alex’s silence lasted the entirety of a short phone call.

“Am I the youngest person you’ve hurt?”  
  
Yassen plugged his laptop into the wall and went to the kitchen for a piece of fruit. “In what way?”  
  
“Tortured. Screaming. Crying. The whole deal.” Alex felt unwell just thinking of it. Breathe.  
  
The answer was unequivocal. “Yes.”  
  
Well that was something. Unless Yassen was lying.

Alex thought he was telling the truth.

“What’s the most dangerous thing you’ve done?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Because I can’t handle it?”  
  
“I am certain you could.”  
  
Alex went to sit at the table. Would Yassen answer anything?

“Do you ever get lonely?” Alex asked. “Constantly being on the move, I mean?”

Yassen took his time to respond. “Do you?”  
  
There was a twitch in Alex’s stomach. He redirected. “I was asking about you.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I keep busy.”

Yassen went to the fridge and pulled out a Coke. He brought it to Alex and sat down.

Alex rested his head on his hands. His next question was quiet. “Do you wish your family was still alive?”

An odd expression crossed Yassen’s face. “I think,” he said, “That you should consider why you are asking these questions. And whether you want to continue.”

Alex swallowed. His gaze flickered between the floor and Yassen. “I just thought…” He faltered.

“You should go rest,” Yassen said. It wasn’t a suggestion.

“Sorry,” Alex muttered. Yassen stood up, face impassive.

Alex closed the door to the bedroom behind him when he went in.

\---

“Do I act like my dad?”  
  
Alex was sitting at the table while Yassen cleaned up. A cup of tea was in front of Alex, but he couldn’t drink it. He’d been working up the nerves to ask this question all morning. Working up the nerves to take rejection, if this was too personal. He’d barely been able to eat, pushing food around his plate. Now he gazed in Yassen’s direction, trying not to show how much the question meant to him.

Yassen raised an eyebrow. “You talk more.”  
  
“Seriously.”  
  
“That was serious.” Yassen considered. “You are a better person than your dad was. John Rider was very focused on his mission, on the objective. You are more concerned with the people around you.”  
  
“He was a good person,” Alex insisted, suddenly scared that he was about to hear more horror stories about his dad, like the ones he'd once thought were true.   
  
“Very. He taught me well, and I was destined to be his enemy.” Yassen tapped Alex’s shoulder lightly. “But you are better. I don’t think I could have threatened John with shooting another person, one he barely knew at that.”  
  
“I thought you just liked me because I’m a shadow of my dad.” Although ‘liked’, in Alex’s opinion, was a bit strong of a term. ‘Tolerated enough to not kill’ was a better word for their relationship.

“You’re not John’s shadow. You are both very likeable, and clever. But you are your own person, with traits from your mother and uncle, I’m sure.”

Alex asked his next question before he could consider the effects. “Why did you kill Ian? If you think I’m good, Ian raised me.”  
  
“I didn’t know Ian Rider, and he was an adult. If you had been an adult when we met, I doubt very much that you’d be alive right now.” Yassen paused to reflect, then added, “I should perhaps mention, that thinking someone was good has never stopped me from killing them.”  
  
“What if we meet in 5 years?”  
  
“That’s unlikely.”

“That doesn’t answer the question,” Alex countered.

Yassen stood and dialed a number. He put the phone to his ear and began to speak.

Well, Alex thought, with a twist in the stomach. That was an answer.

Hours later, while Alex lay on his stomach on the couch, trying to work his way through the xenophobic rhetoric of the Australian politician, Yassen called for his attention.

“Alex," Yassen said. Alex tilted his head to face the killer. “No, I wouldn’t kill you.”

Alex was quiet for a long time after that.


	7. Return

Yassen had been taking frequent Skype and phone calls recently. He had also been watching several videos recorded by The Armed Insurrection – apparently mostly related to the phone and Skype calls. When Alex watched over his shoulder and asked what they were for, Yassen replied that he had been screening propaganda videos for mass psychological appeal. (To which Alex had suggested that referring to his own sides’ videos as ‘propaganda’ showed a serious lack of commitment to the ideology being endorsed.)

When Yassen took that morning’s phone call, Alex expected it was the same as usual. (In his imagination, this meant Yassen was adding comments such as ‘add more guns’ or ‘say the word infidel more frequently’). Only the fact that he heard the name ‘Rider’ mentioned made him think otherwise.

He sat anxiously, waiting to find out what was happening. He knew MI6 would mess this up. Half of his reasoning behind the escape attempt was to escape from the building and alert the authorities that this compound was a place where terrorists lived, and people were being held in servitude. The other reason had been to avoid losing a limb because the proposed terms of exchange for Alex didn’t suit their interests.

Yassen hung up the phone.  
  
“Alex.” Yassen waited until Alex met his gaze. “You’re going home.”  
  
He must have misheard.

“I’m going home,” Alex repeated. Disbelieving. “When?”  
  
“Tomorrow.”

Alex sat in a daze for a while. He focused on his breathing, the same way he practiced at his dojo.

“Guess I still have some of my summer left,” Alex said. He smiled faintly. “I was thinking of going to America to visit a friend. Something to look forward to.”

Yassen hesitated. “This is your summer vacation?”  
  
“Yeah. Now I get to tell all my friends I was held captive. Fun break.” Alex grimaced. “I can’t even count how many excuses I’ve had to come up with this year.”

“You wouldn’t need any if you stopped working for your government.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Alex shrugged. Working for MI6 had never really been his choice. He imagined it wouldn’t start being his choice now. They didn’t have anyone more to threaten him with (you can’t deport a dead woman, he had realized earlier with a pit in his stomach). But the threats from the all the people who wanted him dead gave MI6 reason to decide to move Alex to different places at any point in time. And they would claim they did it for his own safety. The worst part is that they might not be wrong, even if they were placing him in the path of other dangers along the way.

“Are you going back to school?”  
  
“I don’t know. Probably.” Alex sighed. “I’m getting really far behind. MI6 has been hiring me tutors, but it doesn’t matter when they keep pulling me for more missions.”  
  
“You should.”  
  
Alex scowled. “Oh, are we back to your original advice? Go to school and stay out of trouble?”

Yassen smiled. “Yes.”

“Maybe I want to be like my dad and uncle.”

“Do you?”

Did he? “I don’t know.”

“You have that option as an adult,” Yassen said. “It is better to think about it now and commit to it later.”

Alex bit his lip. “You were 19 when you joined SCORPIA. That’s not that much older than me.” At Yassen’s raised eyebrow, Alex said, “Sorry. My godfather told me.”

“So wait until you are 19,” Yassen suggested. “Until then, there are video games about being a spy.”

“Or I could continue being a spy, and just not be caught.” Alex didn’t point out that almost every mission he’d worked for MI6 had resulted in him being discovered and captured, this most recent mission being by far, if not the worst, the longest.

“Or you could be killed before 16, by someone like me.” Yassen lifted his shirt slightly to show the gun at his waist.

Point.

“I don’t know,” Alex said. “So far I’ve had really great luck at the whole not dying thing. Maybe that will continue.

Yassen frowned. “You should not be relying on luck.”

“You can’t tell me you’ve never gotten out of a tight spot because of luck,” Alex replied skeptically. “At least a few times.”

“I have gotten lucky, once or twice,” Yassen agreed. “And unlucky just as often. The difference is, I had the skills to figure my way out of the situation I was in.”

“And I’ve gotten unlucky too. I don’t _just_ rely on luck.”

“You are smart, but you have not been trained.”

Alex felt his stomach churn. It was painful to be reminded how little MI6 had prepared him. On the other hand, he had gone to Brecon Beacons. And regardless of the twisted feeling that it gave him, Ian had been giving him the skills that a spy could use for as long as he could remember. “I had some training.”

“Some,” Yassen repeated. From his tone, it was clear that he did not find this sufficient.

“At least I didn’t have to study dismemberment and nine ways to kill someone with a rusty fork,” Alex said. “Or whatever else they taught you.”

“They?” Yassen said. Alex looked away. There were moments he was grateful his dad had trained Yassen well enough for a connection to form. Certainly, he was alive because of that connection. Other moments it still stung.

“Well, what do you want?” Alex asked. “I can train more, but that’s not perfect. No matter how well trained I was, you were always going to know who I was when we ran into each other. And RTI isn’t the same thing as actual torture.”

“No, I imagine MI6’s version is not the same,” Yassen replied. “You could still be more prepared.”

“What are they going to do to prepare me, shoot people in front of me until I can live with it?” Alex asked harshly. This conversation was becoming too real. Yassen was a killer. Alex was 15. _Of course_ Alex had broken when he was tortured. But for once Alex didn’t think this was related to age. However old he got to live to be, he couldn’t imagine that he would just look away while someone was executed.

“If you are going to be a spy, you should be prepared to sacrifice for the so-called greater good. It will do you no favors to hold attachments to people.”

But this was the man who had kidnapped Sabina when Alex had Cray’s flashdrive. Who used people against each other without any consideration for their feelings or lives. Who had needed several hours to commit to the idea of not killing Alex. 

“Just because you’re heartless doesn’t mean everyone needs to be. I don’t want to be a killer. I want to help people.” And he wasn’t even sure he wanted to do that. Not for a career, anyway.

“You’ve helped enough people for several lifetimes,” Yassen said. “Is it worth your life to continue along that path?”

Alex dug his foot into the floor. He didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure he had a response ready.

\---  
“I’m not going to be able to sleep tonight.” Alex suppressed the urge to bite at his remaining nails. His nerves had been on end since he’d been told that he was going home. Yassen’s points about being an effective spy hadn’t helped. Now on top of Alex’s worry about his transfer to MI6 going smoothly, he had to consider whether he was cut out to be a spy.

“The exchange is very early in the morning,” Yassen said. Alex supposed that meant he wouldn’t have gotten much sleep even if he could drift off.

Yassen stood and picked up his cell.

“What do you want for dinner, little one?”

Alex shrugged. “Are there choices?”

“What do you want?” Yassen repeated.

“I suppose a pizza isn’t on the menu,” Alex said.

Yassen made a call.

\---

“I thought you were joking,” Alex said warily, when a man in black brought a box of pizza to the apartment door.

“No,” Yassen said. A corner of his lip turned up.

Alex walked to the kitchen and washed his hands. “Is this a goodbye present?” He asked sarcastically. “You’re going to miss my presence so much you dug into your blood money and bought me fast food?”

“If you want to think that,” Yassen said cheerfully.

Alex grabbed two slices and dug in, before he could think of something else to say. Yassen was probably just delighted to have his own space again. And much as Yassen was a good cook, it had been a while since Alex had eaten something deliciously greasy.

“Have you decided whether you’re going back to school?” Yassen asked.

Between bites, Alex scowled. “Can we not?”

Yassen raised his eyebrows, although his good humour didn’t appear to diminish.

“I’m going back to school,” Alex said finally, after finishing his first slice. “I think.” He started on the second slice. “Are you going to eat?”

“In a bit,” Yassen replied. His eyes wandered between Alex and the kitchen.

“I’d say you must think a break from cooking would be nice, but I’ve cooked enough days that I’m not sure it really counts.” Alex finished his second slice and went for a third.

“You’ve cooked a few times,” Yassen admitted.

“Wished I’d known this was an option,” Alex quipped. “Would have saved myself the effort.”

Yassen smiled and shook his head.

“So,” Alex said. “You aren’t going to have a prisoner anymore. That will be nice.”

“I’ll appreciate the silence,” Yassen said.

“I’m going to play my music on full volume all day,” Alex countered.

The assassin laughed.

“It will be nice to know what’s popular on the radio.” Alex pushed his plate away, full. “And I’m going to the movies. And I’m never reading another book about politics ever again.”

“Did you finish that book?” Yassen asked.

“Yeah. There was a great twist. Turns out he hated immigrants and his grandad was one. He wrote an entire chapter about how people like his grandad, who just wanted a better life, are selfish.” Alex shook his head and snorted. “It really inspired me to never meet the author.”

“Hmmm,” Yassen hummed. “Perhaps your next mission you’ll need to get close to him.”

“Then I’m quitting and never turning back.”

“Then I hope he is your next mission,” Yassen said. His smile disappeared.

Alex shrugged uncomfortably. Time to change the topic. “I’m going to work on my football too.”

“How long have you played?”

“A few years. Ian really wanted me to do swimming, but I wanted to be a footballer.” Alex’s foot fidgeted. Was it a betrayal of Ian’s memory to talk about him to the man who had killed him? An emotion Alex couldn’t name threatened to overwhelm him.

“Anyway,” Alex spoke quickly. “It got tough this year because I was gone so often, on missions for MI6. I don’t know if I’ll be able to stay on the team next year. But if I try to stay in school, I might be able to.”

Alex glanced up. Yassen was watching him cautiously now, as if Alex might explode. Alex shifted. “I haven’t forgiven you,” Alex said. “But ignore what I said a year ago. I’m not going try and kill you.” He smiled bitterly. “Mostly because I don’t want to face a bull again.”

“You survived once.”

“Yeah, but what did you say?” Alex stood and picked up his plate. “I shouldn’t rely on luck.”

\---

After dinner, Alex made no moves to go to the bedroom.

Yassen made no moves to make him.

Alex wrapped himself in a blanket and rested against the couch. He should be elated. He was going home. He could play football in the park, visit Wimbledon and watch a match, could buy whatever he wanted at the store.

No one was waiting for him at home.

Jack and Ian were dead. Sabina had moved to America. Even Tom had been out of London on vacation with his brother when Alex had left.

Alex knew his face looked miserable. He caught Yassen glancing at him and Alex quickly turned away.

He didn’t hear Yassen stand, but suddenly the man was on the other side of the room. “Up,” Yassen said.

“Time to go?” Alex asked. His heart thumped.

“Not yet.”

Yassen was slipping his shoes on by the door. He waited as Alex untangled himself and walked to meet him.

“You’ve already seen the way,” Yassen said. For once Alex was leaving the room without a hood.

Alex followed Yassen to the middle of the courtyard. Although it was near 10 and the sun had finally set, underneath his bare feet the path was still warm.

“Sit,” Yassen said.

Alex sat.

Yassen pulled the cigarette packet and lighter from his pocket. He chose a cigarette and lit it.

“You know lung cancer is a real thing, right?” Alex said. “Especially since you’re going to kill whoever cures it, you might want to go slow on those things.”

“I appreciate your concern.” There was a light and slightly mocking edge to Yassen’s voice.

Alex looked around the courtyard. The first night he’d been out here he hadn’t noticed that the lampposts sent out a soft yellow light, not white, leaving the courtyard cast in warm hues even at night. Alex noticed a few men in black sweeping the path a few yards away.

“What are they doing?” Alex asked. “It’s getting later.”

“It’s too hot to work outside all day in the heat,” Yassen said. “They will have prioritized housework while the sun was up.”

Alex watched the men get closer in their work. He didn’t recognize either of them.

“Do you think the people who are held here will ever be free again?”

Yassen didn’t comment.

Alex hesitantly voiced his latest thought. “You said you were a slave once.”

Yassen didn’t meet his eyes. “I’m not going to talk about that.”

“How old were you?” Probably less than 19. Unless SCORPIA allowed their elite killers to be held as slaves, which somehow Alex doubted. And if they did, surely Yassen wouldn’t go back to working for them after escaping.

Yassen shook his head. He tossed his cigarette to the ground and ground the light out under his boot.

“How did you get free?” Alex asked.

“Alex,” Yassen warned.

Alex watched the men work as Yassen lit another cigarette.

“How is MI6 getting me back?”

Yassen inhaled. “They are dropping off a man they had been holding secretly in exchange for you. We’ll make the switch in a rural village. You should be in England by tomorrow.”

“Do you think everything will be alright?” Alex asked.

“Yes.”

Alex’s fingers drummed against the bench. “I’m worried,” Alex admitted quietly.

Yassen looked at Alex.

“Don’t be,” the man said eventually. “You’re worth far more alive than dead.”

“Reassuring.”

“My boss wants his man back. Your government wants you back. There is no benefit to the deal falling through.”

Alex nodded. That was about as reassuring as he expected the assassin to get. Surprisingly, the words almost helped.

Yassen ground the second cigarette out, and gestured for Alex to walk back.

\---

The over timer had just passed 2 a.m. when Yassen said it was time to go. Alex stood up and went to find his shoes. It had been a while since he’d used them.

“Turn around,” Yassen said at the door. Alex did. The dark hood went over his head. His arms were pulled behind his back and a thin plastic zip tie went around his wrists. _Breathe._ Yassen took his arm and pulled him along. Alex counted the steps and turns they took, concentrating on anything other than what could go wrong at the exchange.  
  
At some point Yassen let go of him, and Alex stumbled to a halt. Another hand grabbed him. The grip was far tighter than necessary. The new person led Alex down five steps, and the heavy humidity of outside hit Alex. Alex took a deeper breath in the hood. It was harder to breathe in hear.

Harsh voices spoke around him, and hands tugged him into a car. Thankfully the car had air conditioning. Alex felt bodies bump into both of his sides. Someone buckled him in, and the car started moving.

Irrationally, Alex wondered if Yassen was with him.

The car was driving on smooth roads. Alex could hear other cars in the backdrop. Wherever the compound was, it had to be in a city.

Gradually the sounds of other cars diminished, and then subsided entirely. Alex wanted to be the annoying teenager who asked how much longer until they got there. But even assuming the men in the car spoke English and understood him from behind the hood, he doubted they’d appreciate the humor.

The car stopped. A few voices hushed voices spoke. The butt of a pistol pressed against Alex, and just as quickly disappeared.

A hand on Alex’s zip tied wrists pulled him out of the vehicle while another hand rested on his head, shoving him down to avoid hitting the top of the car.

The hood was lifted from his head.

Overhead lights illuminated a dark football field. It was hot and humid. Three men stood around Alex. They were all armed. Yassen was one of them.

At the other end of the field Alex could just make out the outline of a dark SUV. Next to it were a few small figures. Two of them were clearly carrying long range shooting rifles.

Alex shivered.

“Alex,” Yassen said. He put a hand on Alex’s shoulder.

“They’re not going to shoot me, are they?” Alex asked. His voice shook a little. What if MI6 shot the other prisoner? Wouldn’t this side be obligated to shoot back? Like a version of Albert Bridge, except this time horribly real.  
  
Almost as if he understood English, a man aimed a gun at Alex’s head. Yassen held up a hand, and the gun was lowered.

“You’ll be fine,” Yassen said.

“Unless they shoot first?”

Yassen didn’t respond to that. The hand holding his shoulder squeezed.

Across the field a flashlight turned off and on three times rapidly.

“Walk slowly little one,” Yassen said. Alex nodded, heart in his throat. “Go,” the man said and lightly pushed Alex forward.  
  
Alex walked across the field. He had the horrid suspicion that if he looked back, there would be a red dot on his back. Across the field someone else was walking, slightly faster than Alex’s own pace, in his direction.

Alex counted his steps. The man across the field got closer.

They crossed each other. The man – terrorist – that MI6 had released was cleanshaven and dressed in a white jumpsuit. The other man didn’t look at Alex.

The SUV that belonged to Alex’s side was getting closer. And closer.

A man in full black body armor rushed forward and grabbed Alex. The man shoved Alex in front of him and hustled him forward. Alex moved from his slow pace to a steady trot.

He was led to stand behind the vehicle. If someone shot at him now, they would hit the SUV, not him.

One of the other men spoke into a wireless headset. “Target acquired, transfer successful. Repeat, transfer successful.”

Alex exhaled. He was alive.

Someone reached for Alex with a knife. Alex turned around and allowed them to cut the zip tie off. It fell to the ground and Alex rubbed his wrists.

“You alright kid?” One of the soldiers asked.

Alex looked back across the field. The people who had been holding him captive were in their car. It was turning to go already. Alex watched the car depart, and the knot in Alex’s stomach loosened a little more. 

“Yeah,” Alex said. He was going to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter/epilogue is a *very* important part of this story, so don’t tune out! It’s finished, and I will post it soon. Probably tomorrow.


	8. Epilogue

**Nine Months Later**

  
  
Alex was studying for his end of year exams when his phone rang. He looked at the number before answering.  
  
MI6. They hadn’t called in months. Alex’s last mission for them had been when he was taken hostage by the Armed Insurrection.

“It’s Alex,” Alex said. He waited to hear how his life would be uprooted next. A pit formed in the pit of his stomach, but, curiously, there was also excitement.

“Alex,” Mrs. Jones said. “I was hoping you would come in for a meeting.”  
  
“About?”  
  
“The Armed Insurrection.”  
  
Alex had watched their recent downfall on the news, ending with a raid of Al-Najd’s compound by a joint coalition in March. After two months of public disagreements between several world leaders, Al-Najd was now waiting trial in the Hague for crimes against humanity.   
  
“I don’t know what more I can tell you.”  
  
“This isn’t about what you can tell us, Alex.” There was a long pause on the phone. “Yassen Gregorovich is meeting us in Prague in two days. He requested your presence.”

Yassen. Alex hadn’t known if he was alive. Hadn’t asked himself if he wanted him to be alive.

“I understand if you don’t want to come,” Mrs. Jones said. “You don’t have to go.”

“I’ll do it.”

\---

The meeting was going to be held in a conference room in a five-star hotel. They had arrived early at the hotel that morning, and the two MI6 agents accompanying Alex had gone with him to grab breakfast next to the lounge. Alex had drowned his pancakes with butter, syrup, and bacon. Neither of the agents was what Alex would call “good company”, but they were better than others. They didn’t know Alex had worked for MI6, so they didn’t give him the grief about his age that previous agents had in the past.

The two agents stopped outside the door of their destination. One of them said they were going to stand outside and secure the premises. The other patted Alex down. Alex thought about saying he wasn’t stupid enough to try and kill Yassen Gregorovich twice. In the end he didn’t. The less random MI6 agents knew about his life, the better.

There were six people present in the room. Five besides Alex. Mrs. Jones, a man who introduced himself to Alex as a banker, a Czech dignitary, a man with a French accent named Gustav Durand, and a dark-haired woman who did not identify herself. All of them were sitting around a large table that filled the room. Alex had the impression that meetings held in this room tended to have more people. The conference table could easily sit 30.  
  
“Alex,” Mrs. Jones said. She took a peppermint out of her blazer pocket and began to unwrap it. “I don’t know if you know why we’re all here.”  
  
“No one’s told me anything,” Alex said. “Is Yassen getting arrested?”  
  
“No,” Mrs. Jones said. “Actually,” she began, but she didn’t get the chance to finish.  
  
Yassen Gregorovich walked into the room. He entered quietly and gracefully. He was holding a folder.   
  
“Mr. Gregorovich,” said the unidentified woman.  
  
He nodded and took a seat.  
  
Perhaps predictably, he didn’t look at the one person he’d invited to come.  
  
The Czech dignitary said, “As you can see, this meeting is secure. No one is in any danger here. And you will get your weapon back after this meeting has concluded.”  
  
Yassen nodded again, facing Mrs. Jones. He appeared fully relaxed. He put the folder he’d been carrying on the desk and rested a hand on it.

"Let's begin," the unidentified woman said. 

“Your money is all here,” the banker said, sliding a briefcase across the table. Yassen reached for the briefcase, opened it, and inspected the money.

“The first half was, of course, delivered 8 months ago.”

“Yes,” Yassen agreed. He slid the folder he’d brought across the table, and the unidentified woman reached for it. She opened the folder and skimmed its contents.

“You will find the locations of five former members of The Armed Insurrection. The American journalist you’re looking for is still alive, in a secure location in Riyad. Coordinates are there.” Yassen nodded at the folder.

The woman turned over some papers. Eventually she agreed the contents were as described.

“And the documents detailing The Armed Insurrection’s liquid capital and accounts?” The banker asked.

“It is here,” the unidentified woman said. She passed a paper-clipped stack of papers to the banker.

Alex listened to the adults begin a discussion about resources and taxes. Yassen answered each question without inflection. The banker took notes. Mrs. Jones interjected occasionally with questions about counterterrorism protections that certain Swiss banks took. Alex gave up on understanding the specifics of the discussion and studied the assassin. He knew his attention was not unnoticed, but it went ignored. 

“I think this concludes our questions,” the banker said eventually. He capped his pen.

“If we could remind Mr. Gregorovich of the terms of this deal,” Mrs. Jones said. She turned to her right. “Izaak?”  
  
“Per our agreement, you will retire outside of the European Union, and not return to the EU in the future. You will not be involved in any crimes against citizens of the EU. You will not speak to the press about your involvement with the security, intelligence, and antiterrorism forces about our agreement. You will not attempt to coerce citizens of the European Union into committing crimes on your behalf,” the Czech man said. “If you disregard these terms, no assurances will be made that you will be safe from arrest for any previous or future crimes.” He cleared his throat. “And, of course, our agreement only pertains to countries inside of the European Union. Any action taken against you by other countries for crimes of any variety will not violate the terms of our agreement.”

Yassen’s blue eyes flickered between the adults in the room, but he said nothing.

“If that is all,” the dignitary began.  
  
“I want a minute with Alex,” Yassen said, cutting him off. The dignitary, startled, looked at Alex in alarm.   
  
“Alex?” “Mrs. Jones asked. “You don’t have to say yes.”  
  
“Yes,” Alex said, ignoring her words.   
  
Yassen watched the others leave the room. Alex watched Yassen.  
  
“You’re back in school,” Yassen said. He turned to face Alex.  
  
“Yeah,” Alex said. “I made the football team again too.”  
  
“Good,” Yassen said. He smiled. “It seems that the intelligence agencies were able to take down their villain without you this time.”  
  
“Because of you,” Alex replied. He had realized during the meeting.  
  
Yassen said nothing.  
  
“You gave them secrets,” Alex revealed what he now understood. “Information on your boss and his men. Whatever they needed to stop them. That’s why they’re paying you.”  
  
Yassen arched an eyebrow. “They are paying very well, for governments that are dealing with debt crises.”  
  
“Anything for money,” Alex muttered.  
  
Yassen shook his head. “Not anything for money. The money was not my only motivation. My previous boss paid almost as well, for less personal risk.”  
  
“Then why?”  
  
Yassen fixed him with a level gaze. “Someone convinced me that aiding slavery was perhaps not the moral thing to do.”  
  
Alex frowned, uncomfortable. “Like you suddenly care about morals.”  
  
“There was also a deal that MI6’s resident child spy would be promptly retired.” Yassen said. His tone indicated that it was an unimportant detail.  
  
“You helped MI6 just for me.” Alex couldn’t keep the skepticism out of his voice. But…Jones hadn’t called him since he’d gotten back from the Middle East. Against all of his expectations, he had been left alone, save for the consistently changing guard stationed outside his house.   
  
“There were many factors.” Yassen gestured to the briefcase of money. “If I could clear my conscious with a long dead friend by serving the common good and his son, all the better.” He glanced at his watch. “I need to go.”  
  
“I’ll walk with you.” Alex stood. He had more questions.  
  
“I doubt your friends would like that.”  
  
“I don’t care. They’re not holding me captive.”  
  
Yassen shrugged, and led the way out of the room. Mrs. Jones stepped forward when she saw Alex only to stop immediately when he put his hand up. Yassen reached for his gun from the man who’d been watching the door. The man glanced at the Czech dignitary, who looked at Mrs. Jones. Mrs. Jones, in turn, looked at Alex. “I’ll be right back,” Alex promised.  
  
Reluctantly Mrs. Jones stepped out of the way. The guard handed Yassen his gun, and it disappeared into a waist holster. Yassen walked straight to the staircase and Alex followed.  
  
On the street below, Yassen hailed a taxi. He gave the name of the train station to the driver.  
  
“I’m coming to the station too,” Alex insisted. Yassen held the door open for Alex.  
  
“Where are you going?” He asked, once the taxi had started on its path.  
  
“Russia, but not directly.”

Alex turned to close the partition between the driver and the passengers.   
  
“When did you contact them?”  
  
“After you went home.”  
  
“Why did they trust you?” Alex asked.  
  
“I gave them information for free. Information on things that were going to happen. Information they could verify when they tracked the right people.”  
  
Alex thought of the bombing plans he had seen, the day all the men had gathered in Yassen’s quarters. Alex had tracked the news for months but never seen a building that looked similar brought up in association with terrorism.  
  
“Someone had to know that information was being leaked.”  
  
“There were suspicions, but not of me,” Yassen said.  
  
Of course not. “What about repercussions?”  
  
“From the few scattered radicals who are left, who don’t know that I turned them in?”  
  
Put like that, it was obvious that Yassen had little to fear. Alex gazed out the window to see the sign for the train station. They were almost there.  
  
“Did you feel guilty, about hurting me?”  
  
Yassen looked at Alex. No. Alex had figured as much.  
  
Yassen surprised Alex by reaching for his hand. The one whose nails had been ripped out. Alex let him without protest. “You’ve healed.”  
  
“Yeah,” Alex said. It was true. He had healed. Unlike most of his missions, he didn’t have any scars to show for his work.  
  
“How is school?” Yassen asked.

“It’s good.” Alex was almost surprised to realize that was true. “I’m about to go to sixth form. I'm looking into the sciences and maths.”

“It’s good that are pursuing other things.”

“Apparently you didn’t give me much of a choice. What were you going to do, quit your deal if they hired me again?”

“Perhaps,” Yassen said. “I told you once. Spying is for grownups.”

“I think you said killing,” Alex corrected.

“Sometimes there is not much of a difference.” Seeing Alex’s dubious expression, Yassen amended his statement. “Sometimes there is.”   
  
The taxi arrived at the station. They got out and Yassen paid.

Alex trailed behind the man as he entered the station.

“You know MI6’s promise not to use me ended as soon as your deal finished, right?” Alex asked.

“I can’t control your future. Nor would I want to.” Yassen stopped in front of the screen of train schedules flickering over the heads of other passengers. He glanced at Alex. “Are you done following me?”  
  
“Yeah. I just wanted to ask some questions.” Alex looked around the space and decided to reveal his more specific reason for joining. “Also I figured they wouldn’t shoot you if I was there.”  
  
“Were they planning to?” Yassen asked. If he was surprised or shocked at the idea, he didn’t show it.  
  
“No idea. But better safe than sorry.” Alex shrugged uncertainly. “I haven’t found the government to be…entirely honest when it comes to terrorism.” Yassen nodded in understanding.

“Take care, little one,” Yassen said. He turned to go.   
  
“Stay warm in Russia,” Alex said. He stood there as Yassen disappeared into the crowd. For a few minutes after Alex could no longer see Yassen, Alex watched the people around him walk to their destinations. Then he turned. It was time to go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And...one week after coming up with the idea for this story, it's done. Thanks for reading with me.
> 
> Sometime in the future, I may add an update with a scene or two from Yassen's perspective. I decided to do this story in only Alex’s point of view for several reasons. But what Yassen was thinking was very important to the process of the story, and Alex’s understanding of several situation doesn’t fully realize Yassen’s.


	9. Points of View//An Epilogue to the Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Some scenes from Yassen’s point of view, and one other thing.

Hunter had wanted Yassen to join him at MI6.  
  
Alex had told him this. However furious Alex had been at the torture, at the death of his uncle, at Yassen’s work with SCORPIA, Alex had given Yassen access to a truth about his past relationship. A truth Yassen never would have known without the boy.  
  
Yassen ignored the pang of emotion he associated with these thoughts.  
  
Hunter had trained him to hurt and kill people. Alex was too late to change the past 15 years of Yassen’s life.  
  
And now Alex had tried to escape.  
  
Yassen surveyed the boy. Head bent, face pale, taking raggedy breaths. His foot, covered in blood. His right arm, covered in burns.  
  
He would try to escape again. Yassen had gone to get the first aid kit, had been prepared to wrap the boy’s foot up and take him back to the apartment. And then Alex had looked up with bright brown eyes and given Yassen such a resigned glare that Yassen had _known_ that Alex knew the consequences of his actions. And would bear them again. Yassen had ripped the boys’ nails out before, when he had first been captured by The Armed Insurrection. Yet Alex had tried to escape.

Yassen wasn’t prepared to allow the boy to ruin his work for the third time.

Yassen turned away from the boy and made a call.  
——  
Alex had been subdued since his escape attempt. He’d sit quietly for hours, withdrawn, and when he spoke he looked tentative. Yassen had spotted Alex glancing furtively his way every few minutes. Even now, reading a book on the couch, Alex looked beaten. He had shadows under his eyes, and a worn look on his face.

If there was one benefit to his condition, Alex’s unending anger had ceased.

Yassen closed his laptop. He had spent the past few hours researching potential recruits for a mission to infiltrate a potential source for recruits. He had picked the strongest two candidates, and he would send instructions to their handler tomorrow.

He looked at Alex. “How’s your foot?”  
  
“Fine,” Alex said quietly. “Can I make lunch?”  
  
“Yes.” Yassen considered the boy. “I assume you will be less cavalier with returning the cutlery.”  
  
Alex’s jaw twitched, but he nodded.   
  
Yassen knew he was telling the truth. Alex was desperate to protect the man he had befriended. 

Yassen reached for a binder that had been dropped off earlier, and began to read about the logistical nightmare that was ordering guns from Ukraine.

Hours later, Yassen counted the knives in the kitchen.  
  
He had made a mistake earlier, thinking Alex afraid enough to not try anything. He had grown complacent. He had possibly made a mistake with this entire situation. Alex could be kept locked in the basement of the compound instead of with him.

Except Yassen knew Alex. Knew him well enough to know that he would try to escape. And with his luck, he may succeed.

And Yassen knew the guards who watched the perimeter of the compound. Knew that if Alex was lucky enough to try to escape but unlucky enough to be caught, Alex would be beat worse than Yassen had when he tried to escape Sharkovsky's estate in his youth. And worse could happen. Things that Yassen had been lucky enough to avoid. While Alex may not like to think it, Yassen was treating him with more kindness than any other of Al-Najd’s men would have.

No, Alex was safer and less trouble with him.

Yassen pushed away the idea that perhaps he had just wanted the chance to see who John’s son was. He closed the knife drawer.

“I didn’t take any of them,” Alex said. The boy opened the refrigerator and grabbed an apple.

“No,” Yassen agreed.

Alex looked like he was about to stay something but thought better of it. He turned and walked back to the other room.

Yassen wiped the counter off and returned to his work. He was halfway through a report when Alex spoke.

“Have you heard anything else from MI6?”

“They aren’t communicating with me,” Yassen said. That was true. He knew communications were happening, but Al-Najd had decided to negotiate for one of his men to be returned by himself.

“Guess I’ll just appreciate having two hands while I do, then,” Alex said. He was staring at a book with such concentration it was clear he wasn’t reading.  
  
Ah.  
  
Yassen knew Alex thought he would maim him if asked. Yassen had no desire to shake that fear. It kept Alex subdued.   
  
Yassen wasn’t a butcher. If MI6 was foolish enough to try something, Yassen would have to convince Al-Najd that the boy was worth more unharmed. Or perhaps a video of Alex being tortured would suffice.

“MI6 isn’t going to do anything,” Yassen said.

Alex didn’t respond.  
—-

Finally, one of the men that did the shopping had found cabbage at the store. Yassen turned it over and inspected it. It looked fine for cooking. A little dirty and bruised, but that was to be expected. Cabbage was not native to this country. He brought it to the sink and began to wash it.

At the back of his mind, he considered the problem of Alex Rider.

This week Alex had been more curious than hateful or cautious. His consistent stream of questions was...puzzling. Yassen didn’t know what was motivating the boy. There were certain moments he was certain it was projection. When he had asked about Yassen’s family, Yassen was almost certain the boy was missing his own.

Almost.

Yassen grabbed a knife and diced the cabbage into smaller pieces. Then he cut onions into thin strips and put the cabbage and onions into a skillet with some oil. He began to sauté the vegetables.

And yet, Alex had seemed genuinely curious.  
  
Yassen couldn’t remember asking that many questions at 15. Then again, his life had been very different at the time.

The vegetables done, Yassen scooped them into a bowl next to the stove. Next he added the ground beef to the skillet, and began to brown the beef.  
  
A soft rustling indicated Alex was waking. Yassen listened to footsteps go between the living area and the bedroom. He heard the restroom door close.  
  
Yassen mixed the cabbage and onions with the meat. He looked for the salt, pepper, dill, and garlic to stir in.

Alex was coming back.  
  
“What’s for dinner?”  
  
“Piroshkies.”  
  
“What’s that?”  
  
Yassen thought of how to explain the dish in a way that would make sense to an English child. “Beef and cabbage in dough,” he settled on.  
  
“Oh.”  
  
Alex grabbed his blanket from the couch, went to the bedroom, and closed the door.

Yassen counted the knives in the kitchen.

Positive they were all accounted for, he breathed a sign of relief. Alex wasn’t going to try and escape if it cost a man his life. But it was still better to be certain. It had become a check that Yassen did at least once a day.

What was the boy doing now? Yassen turned the stovetop heat off before walking to the bedroom door.  
  
“Alex,” he said, loud enough to be heard through the door.   
  
No one responded.  
  
Cautiously Yassen opened the door.  
  
Alex was asleep again.  
  
Yassen walked over to where Alex slept. The child looked younger than he was when he slept. That, or Alex looked older than he was when awake. Probably the latter, Yassen decided.   
  
He knew Alex hadn’t been sleeping well at night. He’d admitted to having nightmares. Not that he’d needed to admit it. Yassen had heard him, tossing and moaning in his sleep. Yassen wondered if the nightmares were all because of the death of his housekeeper.   
  
“Wake up,” Yassen said as he shook Alex’s shoulder. The boy’s eyes flickered. He batted at his shoulder lightly.

“Go away.”

“Dinner will be soon.”   
  
“How soon?” Alex asked, the sleep obvious in his voice.  
  
“About an hour.”  
  
Alex groaned in a rather heartfelt manner. Yassen suppressed a smile. “Up. You can sleep at night.”  
  
Yassen left the room and allowed Alex to wake up. If the boy wasn’t out in ten minutes, he’d wake him again.   
  
Four minutes later Alex dragged himself to the table. Yassen fetched him a glass of water and Alex mumbled a ‘thanks’.  
  
Yassen went to fetch the biscuits he needed from the refrigerator, before turning back to the counter with them and catching sight of the expression on Alex’s face. He prepared himself mentally. The questions were going to start again.  
  
“What’s your favorite color?” Alex asked.  
  
“I don’t have one.”  
  
“Favorite food?” Alex tried  
  
“No.”

Alex frowned. “Come on. You have to like something. No one doesn’t have some foods they like more than others.  
  
“Preferences will get an assassin killed,” Yassen said. “Your father taught me that.”

When no more questions were immediately forthcoming, Yassen felt himself relax. No ridiculous questions then. Nothing he needed to regret sharing with the boy.  
  
Alex, as usual, surprised him.  
  
“Are there things you enjoy about your job?” He made an expression Yassen couldn’t identify. “I mean, I don’t think you enjoyed torturing me. And maybe you don’t care about killing people, but that’s different than enjoying it.”  
  
Yassen racked his brain for an answer that would preserve the slight goodwill the past few days had built with the child.  
  
“No, Alex, I don’t enjoy killing people.”  
  
It wasn’t entirely a lie. Yassen didn’t care about the death of his targets. What he enjoyed, he admitted to himself, was success. And he’d had many of those.  
  
“So?” Alex asked. “Anything you do enjoy?”

Yassen didn’t know how to respond. He had never gotten into this job to enjoy it. Just as he’d never worked for Sharkovsky out of his free will, SCORPIA had barely given him a choice. John Rider had attempted to give him a choice, but at that point Yassen had the skills to succeed as a killer.

“And don’t say the money,” Alex said. “Because that’s despicable.”

Yassen smiled despite himself, amused. Yes, the money was a benefit. He had the freedom to come and go as he chose in a way few others did.  
  
“Problem solving,” Yassen responded. He turned back to his cooking. The biscuits needed to be cut into half and flattened. The meat and cabbage needed to be placed in the middle of the dough, and folded into a half moon. The edges needed to be pinched shut.

“You know you could problem solve without killing people, right?” Alex continued to list several careers. “You could be an architect, a computer engineer, a doctor. If you’re a cook you even get to work with sharp knives,” he added as an afterthought. “And make substitutions. That’s problem solving.”

“Arsenic instead of cyanide?” Yassen suggested.

“Ha. Ha. Funny.”

Yassen’s smile became wry. John’s son was as clever as John, a fact that Yassen had come to accept. He’d even made the comparison to Alex earlier in the week, when Alex asked about his father.

“What kind of problem solving?” Alex asked after a few moments had passed in silence.

Yassen had found that Alex eventually gave up if he simply stopped responding. He’d used that to his advantage several times, when Alex tended towards personal questions or questions that might lead Alex to one day be able to track Yassen down.

The simple problem remained that Yassen _enjoyed_ talking to Alex. There were many topics Yassen steered clear of, knowing that Alex would object or, in the case of one question Alex had asked, would lead to nightmares. There were other topics Yassen had no intention of thinking about, let alone talking to another person about.

Some topics could be safely considered neutral grounds.

“How to get into a building.”

“I’ve solved that problem a few times,” Alex said. “I found SCORPIA the first time by breaking into two separate buildings.”

“The first time?” Yassen asked. By unspoken agreement, he and Alex had kept away from discussing SCORPIA in detail.

“Well, when I was looking to find out more about them.” Alex’s voice shifted. “Later on, I was just trying to stop them.”

“And succeeding to stop them,” Yassen said. If it wasn’t such a touchy subject, he would have asked Alex more. The details he had heard while injured and out of commission had been sparse. SCORPIA had never enjoyed details about their failures being spread.

Yassen turned the heat under the skillet onto medium-high heat and began to heat the oil that cooked the stuffed dough.

“Anyway,” Alex segued. “You could be a professional robber. Less people are hurt that way, and it’s still illegal.”

“And what should I steal?” Yassen asked. “Nuclear codes? Secrets from intelligence organizations?”

Alex made a soft noise of annoyance. “I was going to say expensive jewelry.”

Yassen eyed the cooking piroshkies. They would be ready soon. Then he could make the salad.

“I think not,” Yassen said. He left it at that.

Alex heard his tone and sat quietly.

When all was said and done, Alex was working for MI6. He had a view of the world that wasn’t compatible with Yassen’s. And Yassen…might have had that same view of life and morality if things had been different. If John had been working for SCORPIA instead of MI6. If MI6 had listened to what John wanted, and reached out to Yassen.

A part of Yassen wished that had happened.

But that would be a different world. In this one, Yassen and Alex were enemies. However fond of the boy Yassen was, his priority was to his employer.

Was it?

Reluctantly Yassen glanced at Alex. The boy was resting his head on the table, head buried in his arms, blond hair hanging over the long sleeve shirt that hid Alex’s fading burns.

Yassen had already made a commitment to himself that he wouldn’t harm the boy permanently. He had promised Alex that he would never kill him.

Wasn’t that already a betrayal to his employer? Presumably if it benefited the cause, Al-Najd would have Alex executed on the spot. Yassen couldn’t allow that to happen.

Perhaps his priority was not to his employer after all.  
——  
Yassen watched Alex cross the field, his silhouette illuminated by a few light posts around  
  
“Sir,” one of the men spoke in Arabic to him. “Should we aim at the boy?”  
  
He should say yes. If their man was shot, Al-Najd would demand the boy be killed.  
  
He couldn’t forget the fear on Alex’s face as he had asked about that exact situation.   
  
“No,” Yassen said.

None of his men protested, although he knew they wanted to.

On the field, Alex crossed paths with Al-Najd’s man. The boy was closer to his side than to Yassen’s now.

If MI6 was going to make a move, they would have done it by now.

A minute later their man was there.

Yassen waited until all his men were in the car, and then got into the passenger seat again. In the back the men were talking excitedly, and giving praises that their compatriot had returned safely. The driver started the car. “Sir?”

“Go,” Yassen said.

He turned around to see the distant figure of Alex vanish behind the SUV.

Yassen smiled.

\---

**An Epilogue to the Epilogue**

Alex sighed with relief when he caught sight of his house. He’d been away too long.

Alex had spent the past two months in Lebanon, taking Arabic classes while he recovered from a broken arm from his most recent mission. Thankfully, MI6 had paid. They’d seen it as an investment in their future. Alex wasn’t so sure about that. He was only two years into the 5 year contract, but so far Mrs. Jones had mostly placed Alex in Western Europe.

The taxi stopped in front of Alex’s house, and Alex thanked the driver and paid. He grabbed his luggage from the back of the car and dragged it to the house.

He put his bags in the kitchen, and went to the table to check the mail. The regular guy from MI6 that checked on Alex’s house had been nice enough to bring it all in.

He picked up a pamphlet from the top of the mail pile. It was a list of classes for the summer semester. Alex put it in the trash pile. He’d already picked his classes, and they started in a week.

Alex’s uni schedule had gotten a little unconventional – but MI6 had agreed to the deal. Once Alex was enrolled in classes for a semester, he was off limits for that time period. If MI6 wanted him for a mission, Alex had to know before he’d registered, and Alex would take the semester off. Alex had missed the spring semester for his mission and then Arabic classes already.

Technically, Alex wasn’t sure his university allowed for two semesters off in two years, or two semesters of credits from foreign universities in that same two-year period. But MI6 tended not to take ‘no’ for an answer. And Alex might be a semester or two behind in his coursework, but he was intent on graduating.

Ian and Jack would have killed him if he didn’t get a degree.

Most of the rest of the mail was trash. A pamphlet from a church, two coupons for a nearby laundry, several pages of local deals – Alex paused. A postcard had slid out from between two advertisements for local pubs. A postcard with an image of a traditional Russian cathedral on the front. “Hello from St. Petersburg” was written across the front in bright cheerful font. Did Alex know anybody in St. Petersburg?

Frowning, Alex turned to the back.

Alex,

It’s five years later, but perhaps we don’t put ourselves in a situation where your question has any relevance. Although, my answer hasn’t changed.

I’m glad you’ve had the time to choose your path. Remember it's never too late to change it.

Take care.

There was no signature, but then again, there didn’t need to be. Alex put the postcard down on an uncovered part of the table.

Most of his mail was either junk that was going straight to the trash, or school news he would glance at once. But he supposed there was one or two pieces he could keep.


End file.
